


Out of Darkness

by fancyh



Series: Bound in Blood [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Basically fuck all those movies, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes's Trigger Words, M/M, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Not Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Past Brainwashing, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Torture, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Vampire Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-05-19 02:42:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 125,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14865116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fancyh/pseuds/fancyh
Summary: Sequel to "Into Darkness."





	1. Chapter 1

He limps away from the man, head whirling and pounding and body thrumming with pain. He only knows that he has to get away, can't face the man now, but that he's not going back to the base. He's not going back to Hydra. He still doesn't know what's right or wrong, or why he pulled the man out of the river, only that something had screamed  _protect_ and he can't hurt the man. But if he goes back to Hydra they will hurt him and they will wipe him, and something in him rages against the idea. He needs to know. He can't hurt the man. He can't let them take this from him. 

Hunger claws at him and he knows he needs blood to heal, but he can't go back to base. Where can he get blood? It hits him, suddenly.  _A hospital._ He stops, trying to think through the pain and haze in his mind. Someone will find the man, and they will take him to a hospital. All he has to do is wait.

He finds thick foliage to hide behind near enough to the man to hear any rescue attempt, and waits. Eventually teams of agents-not Hydra, thankfully- start sweeping the area, the soldier staying quiet and hidden as they walk right past him, finding the man. Their radios crackle as their voices pitch worriedly, more running with a stretcher as they load the man onto it and start to move out. The soldier creeps behind, sneaking up behind a lagging agent and wrapping his metal arm around his throat until he slumps to the ground, unconscious. The soldier strips off his own wet tac jacket and replaces it with the Shield agent's, stuffing the metal hand into the pocket to hide it and taking the agent's cap, cramming it onto his head. He watches through the trees as the agents meet paramedics and load the stretcher into an ambulance, the ambulance wailing as it takes off. The soldier slips away, following the ambulance at a steady pace, the thread in his chest connecting him to the man telling him where he is at all times. He keeps his head ducked and no one questions him as he moves through the city, civilians too busy running and videotaping and shrieking. By the time the soldier makes it to the hospital the man has been there for a while, the ambulance able to move significantly faster through the city than the soldier. He slips through the doors, full of civilians wounded when the Helicarriers crashed, the ER nothing but chaos as people groan and doctors run around, the scent of blood strong in the soldier's nose. He slips past the reception area deeper into the hospital, no one sparing him a second glance as he follows the scent of blood to the locked room with racks of blood bags. Looking around to make sure no one is watching he breaks the lock, slipping inside. He grabs two bags of blood, stuffing them inside his jacket before venturing back out into the hallway. A nurse bustles past, then stops, turning around and scanning him up and down, taking in the cuts on his face and his right arm held awkwardly to his chest.

"Do you need help?"

He shakes his head. The nurse frowns at him.

"You're a Shield agent, right? Are you here for Captain Rogers?"

He thinks that is the man he pulled from the river, who is here. Shield agents would be expected to guard him. "Yes."

She nods. "But you look hurt. Want me to take a look at those injuries first?"

He shakes his head slightly. "No." He takes a step back, anxiety building. He needs to get out of here.

"You really should get those checked out," the nurse says. "You can't do your duty if you're injured." She frowns. "Why would they be sending an injured agent to guard him? I thought the agents were already here." She scans him again, taking in the his still damp hair, long and tangled, and damp pants and boots that don't match the dry Shield jacket. "And why are you back here?"

The soldier takes another step back as suspicion grows in the woman's expression, her heart rate kicking up. 

"How about you stay right here," she says, trying to sound nonchalant but heart pounding wildly. "I'll go get a doctor for you."

The soldier takes another step back, then another, before turning and walking quickly down the hallway, hearing the woman's footsteps run in the other direction. She'll be informing security. He knows not to run, espionage knowledge embedded in his head even if he doesn't remember, even if it's been a long time since he was anything but a weapon. He walks quickly, blending back into the crowds and leaving the way he came, blood bags sloshing against his chest. He moves through the city until he finds a quiet alley in a run-down area, sinking to the ground next to the dumpster and pulling out one of the bags of blood. He rips the top off with his teeth and latches onto the hole, metal hand squeezing the bag as he drinks hungrily. The bag is enough to satiate his hunger, familiar tingling signaling his injuries are healing. He leans back against the wall, body aching and head pounding, the midday sun making him sweat under the tactical gear. He needs to move.

He gets up, gritting his teeth, throwing the empty blood bag in the dumpster and tucking the other one more securely under his jacket. He keeps moving, wandering the city. As the afternoon wears on he finds an abandoned building, creeping inside. There's nothing but dust and crumbling brick and the soldier relaxes, slumping into a corner with good sight lines. He doesn't know what to do. He can't go back to the base, but he has nowhere else to go and he can't face the man. He leans against the wall, closing his eyes as exhaustion wins over, injuries still healing. He finds himself drifting off into sleep, head drooping to his chest.

***

He wakes, momentarily disoriented until the memories flood back in and he relaxes, breathing steadily. It's dark in the building, meaning he'd probably slept through the afternoon and into the night. He flexes his right arm, the bone healed and back to normal, his ribs feeling similarly healed as he takes a deep breath. He moves until he can lie down on the floor, curling with his back pressed into the corner as he drops back off to sleep.

***

He wakes to sunlight streaming through the broken windows of the building, dust motes dancing in the air. He gets to his feet, knowing he has to keep moving. He searches for the thread in his chest connecting him to the man, sensing that he's one the move, leaving the hospital. Anxiety floods the soldier and he sets out, following the golden thread. He has to know the man is safe and gather information, he tells himself. That's all. He weaves his way through the city, ducking his head as the crowds increase and the noise makes him twitch.

_Captain America Exhibit_ _at the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum!_ a sign proclaims. The soldier pauses, blinking at the sign.  _Captain America._ That is the man. He shakes himself, moving on. He can't think about this now. 

He follows the man to an apartment complex, making himself unnoticeable on a street corner as he watches the car pull up and the man with wings-without wings-climb out of the driver's side, running around to open the passenger door. He tries to help the man out but the man flaps a hand at him, looking irritated, and something pricks at the soldier's mind.

"I'm fine, Sam."

"You literally just got shot yesterday. You shouldn't even be out of the hospital."

"I heal fast."

"You can barely stand."

"I'm  _fine."_

The man with wings- _Sam-_ huffs, throwing his hands up as the man gets out of the car with a pained grimace and starts shuffling towards the door, teeth gritted. They disappear through the door and the soldier follows, catching the swinging door and slipping inside, keeping carefully out of sight of the two men. They get into an elevator, the soldier watching the numbers ding until they hit 4, immediately setting off up the stairs to the fourth floor. He hears their voices come out of the elevator as he ascends, the sound of a key in a lock and then a door creaking open before closing again. The soldier reaches the floor and senses that they're in the apartment at the end of the hall, filing this information away before he makes his way back down. He picks a spot on the street to watch unobtrusively, waiting. After a while Sam comes down, carrying a couple boxes that he puts in his car before returning upstairs. He makes this trip two more times before the man comes down with him and they drive away, the soldier contemplating following but curiosity prompting him to creep back into the apartment complex. Information gathering, he tells himself.

He breaks the lock with his metal hand, slipping inside the apartment. It's fairly bare, something pushing at the soldier's memory as he rounds the corner, seeing bullet holes in the wall. Did he do that? He thinks he might have. He explores the apartment, finding nothing that would tell him about the man or himself, no personal items or personality in the apartment. He's been in other people's homes, he thinks, and they always have a distinct personality, always reflect their owner. But not this place. There is no sign of who the man is, no clue why he would know the soldier. The soldier finds a bookshelf, fingering the spines. Maybe these will tell him what kind of person the man is. He pulls one out at random, studying the cover.

_World War II: A History,_ the title proclaims. The soldier puts it back, pulling out the next one.  _The Cold War: A History._ It seems they're part of a series. There's more of them, he can tell by the spines, a whole row of history books leading up to the 2000s. It must be in the 2000s now, he guesses. 

There are smaller books as well, with soft bindings.  _Frankenstein, Hiroshima, Fahrenheit 451, The Great Gatsby, The Hobbit,_ the list goes on, novels lining the shelves. The soldier's fingers linger over  _The Hobbit,_ pulling it out. He opens the cover, reading the first line. 

_In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort._

Something about it seems familiar, as if he has read this before. But when? He had never been given anything to read except for files on his targets. Curious, he retreats to the soft couch in the middle of the room, sinking down into it as he begins to read.

Four hours later he's finished the book, something warm stirring in his chest. It scares and yet intrigues him, and he pulls another book off the shelf.  _Frankenstein._ He begins to read, at first struggling to parse the strange language but mind quickly adjusting and reading speed picking up. 

Two hours later he closes the book, hand shaking. Something ugly twists in his gut and he throws the book away, curling into the corner of the couch as his breathing picks up. He gasps for breath, mind going white with panic and hand shaking as he presses it to his temple, something like a sob escaping. The panic builds and crests and then everything stops, mind going blank and quiet.

He blinks back to awareness to find the room dark and his limbs stiff. He uncurls from the couch, enhanced eyesight letting him see perfectly in the dark. He spots the book on the floor and shivers before picking it up and slotting it back onto the shelf, making sure nothing looks disturbed. He explores the rest of the apartment, stepping into a bedroom where the man's scent is strongest. He sets a hand on the mattress, memories of his body pinned down to lumpy mattresses swimming in front of his eyes. He turns away, going to the closet. Some of the clothes have been cleared out but a few remain, and the soldier strips out of his boots and tac pants, both of which smell like river water, pulling on a pair of loose pants that offer great range of motion and are soft against his skin, though that doesn't matter. He just needs to be functional. He takes off the Shield jacket and hat as well, throwing them on the bed and trading in his sweat-stained undershirt for a clean t-shirt in the man's drawers. He pads out of the room on bare feet, returning to the couch and curling onto it. His head hits the cushion at the end and he's asleep in minutes, surrounded by the man's scent.

***

He wakes to dim light filling the room, filtering through the blinds on the window. He stretches, getting up and making a round of the apartment to check, just in case. He finds the bathroom and steps in, seeing the shower and remembering showering at the base, the reek of river water and sweat becoming unbearable. Testing, he turns the handle, warm spray spurting from the shower head. Satisfied, the soldier strips off his clothes, stepping into the shower. The warm water is a change from the usual cold, and he uses the strange bottles of soap-like substance sitting on a ledge to get himself clean. They smell strongly of citrus, which is strange, and he reads the instructions before using them, pouring them liberally over his hair. There's also a bar of white soap, which he knows, and he uses this to wash his body. When he feels cleaner than he has in...ever he shuts the water off, grabbing one of the towels slung over a bar and drying himself off before pulling the soft clothes back on. He pads back out to the room with the bookshelves and couch, grabbing another book as he pushes what happened last time out of his mind. Evidence gathering. 

The book is  _Dracula,_ and the soldier feels curiosity wash over him as he reads what the book is about. Maybe this will tell him about himself, how he was created. He reads, struggling through the difficult language at first, but no answers seem forthcoming. Nothing about it is accurate to him. He puts it back on the shelf, disappointed, grabbing the next one.  _The Great Gatsby._

This one is strange and sad, and the soldier feels confused as he closes the book. He does not understand humans. He pulls down the next book.

The next few days pass in much the same way, the soldier reading his way through the man's bookshelf and only stopping to sleep. On the third day he wakes up abruptly and loses time, coming back to awareness at midday to find himself in the shower, clothes still on. On the fifth day he drinks half of the other blood bag, leaving it in the refrigerator. On the seventh day, mid-morning, he's startled by footsteps approaching the apartment, a key jiggling in the lock.

The soldier feels panic spike and gets up off the couch, moving to the bedroom. He's wearing blue denim pants and a flannel over a grey t-shirt, and he pulls on soft flexible shoes, a ball cap, and a jacket from the man's closet as he hears the person step into the apartment. The soldier slips out of the bedroom, starting to creep down the hallway as the footsteps advance, heading in his direction. He's trapped.

"Just can't live without it, right," Sam's voice grumbles. "Honestly, the things I do for Captain America."

The soldier ducks into the bathroom as he hears Sam round the corner and step into the bedroom. The soldier realizes the discarded Shield jacket and tactical pants are still on the bed just as Sam's footsteps stop short and he inhales sharply.

"Is someone here?" Sam questions loudly.

The soldier slips out of the bathroom, almost to the end of the hallway when Sam steps out of the bedroom behind him, the soldier hearing his heart rate spike. The soldier freezes.

"Barnes?" 

The soldier whirls, drawing his knife and readying for a fight. Sam raises his hands, heart pounding in his chest with fear.

"Whoah. I'm only here to get something for Steve. I had no idea you'd be here. I swear. I'm not gonna hurt you if you don't hurt me. Truce?" His voice is even but his fear levels are high.

The soldier takes a step backwards, still watching Sam warily, before fleeing. He wrenches open the door, jumping down the stairwell to the bottom and slipping away onto the street, settling into a walk and tugging his cap down low as he blends in with the people walking. He finds himself passing by the Smithsonian, stopping as he sees the sign for the Captain America exhibit, and pauses before going in. He needs information, and this is a good place to start.

He walks in, seeing the line of people going through the metal detectors and panicking for a second. He quickly backpedals and discretely drops his knife outside before going in, waiting in line as people's bags go through the x-ray machines and they step through the metal detectors. The line inches forward and finally it's his turn, the soldier swallowing nervously.

"Next. Place any belongings in the tray and then step through."

He has none so he simply steps through the metal detectors, the sensory array in his metal arm allowing him to pass through without setting them off. He breathes a sigh of relief as he's waved through, venturing across the open space filled with planes and following the signs pointing to the exhibit. He eventually reaches the opening, stepping though a narrow hallway where a mural is painted of Captain America saluting, flag in the background. 

_A symbol to the nation,_ a narrator proclaims through speakers, _a hero to the world. The story of Captain America is one of honor, bravery, and sacrifice._

He comes upon photographs that make his head pound, the man small, labeled "pre-serum," and the man big, as he is now, labeled "post-serum."

_Denied enlistment due to poor health, Steven Rogers was chosen for a program unique in the annals of American warfare. One that would transform him into the world's first super-soldier._

There's big portraits of the man- _Steven-_ on transparent screens, fading between big and small as people stare at them, milling all around the soldier. The soldier moves to where a motorcycle stands by a screen, war clips playing as the narration continues.

_Battle tested, Captain America and his Howling Commandos quickly earned their stripes. Their mission: Taking down Hydra-the rogue Nazi science division._

How old is he? the soldier wonders. This makes no sense. He steps into the largest room, where mannequins stand in front of a large mural, his own face staring back at him from Steven's left. The others....they look vaguely familiar, and it makes his head ache. He must be that old, too, but he knows he was frozen. Was Steven kept in cryofreeze as well?

He finds a panel detailing Steven's history and reads, committing each word to memory.

_Born July 4, 1918 in Brooklyn, New York, Steve Rogers was the son of single mother Sarah Rogers, his father, Joseph Rogers, having been killed in the First World War before he was born. Captain Rogers battled illness and bullies throughout his childhood as well as poverty, but his will remained strong. After the death of Sarah Rogers in 1936, he moved in with childhood friend Bucky Barnes. Rogers was chosen for the super-soldier program in 1941, starting as a public figure to sell War Bonds on the USO tour and earning the moniker "Captain America." While on tour in Azzano, Italy, Captain Rogers learned that much of the unit had been captured and mounted a one-man rescue mission, saving the lives of 163 men-including that of his best friend Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. Together with Sgt. Barnes and a hand-picked team consisting of Timothy "Dum Dum" Dugan, James "Jim" Morita, Montgomery "Monty" Falsworth, Gabe Jones, and Jacques "Frenchie" Dernier, Captain Rogers took down Hydra bases and help Allied forces throughout the European theatre. On March 1, 1945, Captain Rogers sacrificed his life by flying the Valkyrie-Hydra's weaponized plane loaded with bombs-into the Arctic. The plane was lost and Captain Rogers presumed dead until an expedition in 2011 unearthed the plane and found Captain Roger's body, perfectly preserved in ice. Captain Rogers was revived and joined the Avengers in 2012 to stop the Chitauri invasion of New York, proving his heroism again. He continues to be a symbol and a hero, representing the true American spirit._

So he had been frozen, but not in cryofreeze. He had only been frozen once, not over and over and over again. The soldier is glad, for some reason.

He moves on, coming to a panel with his own face on it, pale and wan and haunted but hair short and throat missing the scar on the side.  _A Fallen Comrade,_ the panel proclaims.  _James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes. 1917-1945._

James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky. It's what the man- _Steve, it's Steve-_ had called him. It's true. It has to be. He is Bucky. But how? 

_When Bucky Barnes first met Steve Rogers on the playgrounds of Brooklyn,_ the panel reads,  _little did he know he was forging a bond that would take him to the battlefields of Europe and beyond._

A narration starts as he stares at his face, feeling nothing but emptiness inside. 

_Best friends since childhood, Bucky Barnes and Steven Rogers were inseparable on both schoolyard and battlefield. Barnes is the only Howling Commando to give his life in service of his country._

He reads the main part, feeling a pang in his chest. 

_Born in 1917, Barnes was an older brother to little sister Rebecca "Becca" Barnes. An excellent athlete who also excelled in the classroom, Barnes enlisted in the army shortly after the attack on Pearl Harbor. After winter training at Camp McCoy, Wisconsin, Barnes and the rest of the 107th shipped out to the Italian front. Captured by Hydra troops later that fall, Barnes endured long periods of isolation, deprivation, and torture. But his will was strong. In an ironic twist of fate, his prison camp was liberated by none other than his childhood best friend, Steve Rogers, now Captain America._

_Reunited_ _, Barnes and Rogers led Captain America's newly formed Howling Commandos. Barnes' marksmanship was invaluable as Rogers and his team destroyed Hydra bases and disrupted Nazi troop movements throughout the European Theater. Barnes was wounded many times in action and captured again in the spring of 1944, enduring further torture in an attempt to gain SSR secrets. Barnes did not give in, and was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross as well as the Purple Heart for his outstanding service. He was later awarded the Medal of Honor posthumously, after he was declared Killed in Action in February of 1945. He is remembered by many for his kind heart, and has become one of the most beloved figures in history._

The soldier swallows convulsively, throat closing up. He had-he had been a  _person,_ maybe. At least he was remembered as one. He doesn't-he doesn't know, and his head hurts and everything is too much. He looks down at the small screen below the panel, his own face playing on film clips. He's laughing, shoulders shaking and Steve smiling widely next to him, both of them looking happy and whole and so, so  _young._ He doesn't think he knows how to smile, or laugh. He certainly doesn't remember ever doing so. 

He walks away, finding himself in a small theater where a film is playing. It's a film about him, he realizes, as photographs come up onto the screen, him in his dress uniform with medals pinned to it, shadows under his eyes. The film resolves to a man recognizable from the mural, name reading 'Jim Morita.'

"Yeah, Cap and Barnes were close," Morita says. "You could tell they grew up together. Barnes was protective of Steve, was used to, you know, savin' him from bullies when Rogers was small. And Rogers was protective right back, now that he was finally able to." Morita chuckles. "Those two fought like cats and dogs sometimes, and it was usually over one of them almost getting hurt. It'd be tense for a while but then they'd always make up. We used to take bets on how long it'd take them after a fight to get back to normal." He shakes his head. "They were inseparable. You couldn't have one without the other. And they fought well together too. It was almost uncanny. I swear they could read each other's minds in the middle of a fight. Never needed words to communicate. That's just how they were. And I think..." Morita takes a breath. "I think Rogers was the only reason Barnes was still there. He could've gone home, but he said no. I think he felt he had to protect Steve, cause it's what he'd been doing his whole life. We used to call him, 'Mama Bear Barnes,' cause he had a protective streak a mile wide. He took care of everyone. When he died..." Morita shakes his head again. "We took it hard, but Cap especially. It was like he'd lost his other half. Like I said, you couldn't have one without the other. And Cap died two weeks later." He clears his throat. "I don't think I need to comment on that. But we miss them, both of them. Every year all the Howling Commandos meet up and we do a toast. We, you know, take a minute to remember them. They were the best men I've ever known, and it's a damn shame they're gone."

The film switches to a man with a thick red mustache sitting in front of the camera, recognizable from the mural but older. The name reads "Timothy 'Dum Dum' Dugan."

"Sarge declined two honorable discharges," he says, shaking his head. "We told him to go home, but he was one stubborn son of a gun. Wouldn't leave." He looks down, swallowing. "Even after they tortured him. I'll never forget that, finding him on that table. They cut him up so bad I though he might die, and he didn't even know it was me. Just kept mumbling his name, rank and service number over and over. I thought for sure he'd tap out, finally go home. But he didn't, and as soon as he was healed he went right back to fighting. Never knew anyone braver. Or kinder." He smiles slightly. "He was great with kids. When we were liberating villages in France the kids would always come up to him first, like they knew he was a big softie."

Pictures come up on the screen, Barnes kneeling in front of children, smiling, a girl putting a flower in his uniform. Barnes hugging a kid tightly. Barnes laughing at something one said, eyes crinkling at the corners.

"He'd let them put flowers in his uniform and give them hugs and make 'em laugh," Dugan is saying. "He was just about the gentlest person I'd ever met, and yet he could shoot a Kraut through the head from a hundred yards away and never bat an eye. Once, he got shrapnel in his leg, huge pieces, but he didn't even notice and kept running around. Saved a bunch of lives before he collapsed hours later. We had to dig out the shrapnel from his leg with a knife and no anesthetic. Never made a peep, and most men'd be crying. He was a tough son of a gun. He survived so much stuff in the war, got injured so many times, that I guess after a while we just kinda started thinking he was immortal, you know. He'd get in scrapes, but he'd always pull through. He'd always survive." Dugan's eyes glitter with grief and his voice turns rough. "But he wasn't immortal. He was just a kid, and we lost him. We all took it pretty hard. We all loved him. I think it was impossible not to. He was the best of us, him and Rogers. I think that's why he stayed, you know. He couldn't leave Steve. I guess it got him killed, in the end." He takes an uneven breath. "And then Captain Rogers went not two weeks later. I guess they really did follow each other everywhere." He looks immeasurably sad. "I miss 'em, both of 'em, but maybe Barnes more. I knew him first, before Rogers. Always felt the need to protect him. God, I miss the kid. He was just so good. The war changed him, though."

Pictures come up, Barnes sitting against a wall with his right arm in a sling and bandages peeking out from his shirt, cigarette held limply in his right hand and haunted eyes staring off into the distance. There's dark shadows under them and his hair is messy, stubble growing on his face. Another picture has him sitting on the ground in his uniform next to another man, uniform spattered with mud and something that might be blood, face streaked with dirt and cigarette dangling from his lips, dark shadows under haunted eyes still. 

"He'd been through so much, and it just changed him," Dugan says. "He was never the same, especially after he got captured the second time. But he was still good, in here." He taps his chest. "Had the biggest heart. It ain't right, him being gone." He shakes his head. "It ain't right."

 A woman comes up on screen, name reading 'Peggy Carter.'

"Everyone loved James," she says. "I never heard a bad word about him. He was always very respectful, too. He treated me like a person, as did Captain Rogers. He was a good man. The first time I really understood that was after he'd been captured the second time, after they tortured him." She pauses, eyes flicking down. "I told him he could go home, that he was getting an honorable discharge. He told me that he wouldn't be taking it." She smiles slightly. "He was adamant. Wouldn't take it. I was so shocked. I'd never imagined that he'd want to stay." Her smile fades and her eyes grow sad. "Though I don't think he wanted to. He was staying out of duty, to protect Steve. He wouldn't leave him. But I don't think he really wanted to stay. I think he was tired, and had been through more than anyone should ever go through. I think he wanted to go home. But he didn't, because that's the kind of man he was." Her voice breaks slightly and she clears her throat, composing herself. "I didn't know him as well as many others, but he still made an impact on my life. I spoke to Captain Rogers, after his death, and I'll never forget that. He was devastated; they all were. The worst thing was the silence. Sergeant Barnes was, I think, the heart of the team. I never saw so much as a smile from the men after he died." She looks down. "And then Captain Rogers died two weeks later." Her chin trembles slightly. "It was hard, losing them both like that. They were good men. I guess we all thought they were invincible. We never expected to lose them." She smiles slightly, pained. "But they were only human, after all."

A picture floats up onto screen, Peggy in combat gear standing with the Howling Commandos, gun resting on her thigh. Steve is on her right and Barnes on her left, all of them looking proud as they stare into the camera.

The film changes to a woman, still fairly young, name reading 'Edith Apfel."

"And you said Sergeant Barnes was the one who rescued you?" the interviewer asks.

"Yes, that's right," Edith says in a German accent. "I'll never forget the face of the man who rescued me. He just reached right down and said, 'Du bist jetzt in Sicherheit. Ich habe dich.' You're safe now, I've got you. And he took my hand and pulled me out of that place. Asked me my name, just kept telling me it was going to be okay. He walked me all the way out and made sure I was taken care of. Even came back to check on me later, and helped me find my family. He was just so kind. I tried to find him after the war, to reconnect, but then I found out he was gone. I was heartbroken. I just wanted to tell him 'thank you. Thank you so much.'"

There's pictures of a camp being liberated, starving prisoners in striped clothing staring at the soldiers. Barnes is there, leaning down to speak to a teenaged girl with his hands on her shoulders, expression kind.

The film changes. It's a man, one leg amputated at the knee, name reading 'James Marshal' on the screen. 

"Sergeant Barnes saved my life," he says. "I was laying in a gully, with all this brush over me and no one around, my leg blown off. They never would've found me. Hell, I don't know how Sergeant Barnes found me. But he did. Tied my belt around my leg. Medics said if he hadn't, I would've bled out in minutes. I remember he asked me for my name. I said, "Jimmy," and I'm crying, only a kid, and he says, 'I'm a James too. Sergeant James Barnes.' And he told me to hold on. He got help, and he carried the stretcher all the way back across no-man's land. Never saw him again after that, got shipped back home, and I always wanted to thank him. When I heard he was KIA I just regretted not telling him that he saved my life. He probably had no idea if I'd lived, and I just wanted him to know that and to thank him."

Pictures come up on the screen, Barnes sitting with a bunch of other soldiers, leg stretched out and bloody bandages wrapped around them and his arm, crutch leaning beside him.

"Sergeant Barnes was wounded by shrapnel before saving James Marshal and many others, not realizing until later," a narrator says. "James Morita performed field surgery with nothing but a knife and rudimentary medical knowledge, stitching him up with borrowed sutures. Sergeant Barnes spent a while recovering at the base near the front line, and many men there remember him fondly, citing instances of mentorship to younger soldiers."

"Yeah, he was like everyone's big brother," a man is saying. "He'd hobble around the base and make sure everyone was doin' alright before one of the Commandos would catch him and drag him back to his tent. Taught me how to throw a knife and gave great advice. Everyone loved him. We were all real sad to hear he was gone."

There's a film clip, a group of soldiers gathered around Barnes, no sound but Barnes evidently talking animatedly, gesturing with his hands. He's sitting on the ground with crutch beside him, and the men laugh at something he says. The camera moves closer and Barnes looks up, apparently listening to something the camera-man is saying. Then he turns suddenly and Steve comes into view, frowning slightly at Barnes. He says something and Barnes sighs, waving off the men as he lets Steve help him to his feet. He shoots a small salute towards the camera and then hobbles away on his crutch, Steve trailing next to him and looking concerned. 

The film changes to the clip he saw outside, Barnes and Steve laughing at something. Steve's smile is blinding and the soldier can see the adoration in Barnes' eyes as he looks at Steve, eyes crinkling at the corners and lips curled upwards, dog tags glinting on his chest through the open neck of his sweater. Steve glances over, meeting Barnes' gaze, and his eyes soften, filling with equal adoration.

The soldier feels something painful in his chest, a mixture of grief and anger. Barnes is dead, and Hydra created the soldier with the wreckage of his body they must have found. The soldier is not Barnes. Barnes was human, a person. The soldier is a vampire, nothing but a machine. The soldier is not the man in the films, is not the man Steve thinks he is. He is Hydra's creation. They hadn't lied about that. But maybe there's a sliver left of Barnes, the warmth in his chest that connects him to Steve. He may not be Barnes, but he can honor his last wish. He can protect Steve. 

The soldier slips out of the theater, head pounding and heart aching. He retrieves his knife and follows the thread that connects him to Steve, walking through the city with head ducked low, metal hand firmly stuffed in his pocket. He ends up in a quiet neighborhood, walking down the narrow alley between houses until he finds the one that Steve is in. He spots a garage behind the house and carefully slips inside, pressing against the wall as he trains his senses on the house where Steve and Sam are talking.

"We should go back," Steve says.

"He won't be there, man," Sam replies. "He's not going to stay once his location's been compromised."

"But he was there. That has to mean something. Maybe he's remembering."

"Or maybe he was there to try and kill you. Who knows?"

"He saved my life. I don't think he's trying to kill me."

"We don't know that. We don't know how you got on that bank, and for all we know he went back to Hydra. I know he was your friend, Steve, but I'll say it again: He might be beyond saving."

"I can't accept that. He's in there, I know it."

There's a sigh. "Alright. You know, I'll give you this-he didn't kill me at your apartment, and he damn well could have."

"How did he...look? Did he look okay?"

"I don't know, man. I was too busy thinking I was gonna die to look closely. He drew a knife on me. Then he just disappeared. Found a Shield jacket and hat on the bed, looks like he used them as a disguise. I worry about what happened to the Shield agent. Looks like he was wearing some of your clothes, so that might've been why he was there. He could blend in anywhere now that he's in civvies."

"We should tell Tony about the Shield jacket. He might be able to find him on security feeds."

"He still mad at you for not calling him when all this went down?"

"He'll get over it. I think he's a little more preoccupied with the fact that Hydra might have killed his parents."

"That's rough. I hate to ask, but....you don't think it could've been him, do you? Barnes?"

"I hope not. Bucky-Bucky admired Howard. They got along like a house on fire. I can't imagine them making him kill him..."

"They made him try to kill you," Sam points out. 

"Yeah." There's a moment of silence. "But he didn't. He saved my life. He's in there, somewhere. I just have to find him."

The soldier returns to Steve's apartment, the fact that they think he won't come back making it the safest place. He sits on the couch and doesn't even read, just staring into the distance as his head pounds with all the information he's learned. The faces from the exhibit flash before his eyes, familiar, just on the edges of his memory but out of reach. He curls into the couch with his hands pressed to his head, just wanting it to stop. He's not Barnes. He's not.  _He's not._

***

He manages to stay away for two days before the insistent tugging in his chest makes him venture out of the apartment and to Sam's house, listening in. He's just checking to make sure Steve is alive and gather information, he tells himself. His new mission is to protect Steve.

"You know Russian?" Sam is asking.

"Only a little, from when we worked with the Soviets during the war. It'll take a while to translate this whole file."

There's a whistle. "Cryogenic stasis. Damn. Wait, what's this?"

"Looks like....experiments. They were studying him. It doesn't look like they originally intended to make him into...you know. It says here, 'attempts to recreate condition unsuccessful.' I think they were trying to make more of him."

"More...vampires? God, when did my life get so weird? If you weren't Captain America, I would never have believed you."

"Thanks."

The soldier slips away again, having determined that Steve is safe and an unsettled feeling in his gut listening to them read whatever file they have. He returns to the apartment and takes a shower, dressing in soft clothes before curling up on the couch and starting on the history books. 

By the next day he's gotten through World War II and moved to the Cold War, fascinated by the history he has no memory of but knows he must have played a part in. Especially the Cold War, he thinks. He served the Russians.  _The Russians were better,_ something tells him, though he doesn't know what that means. 

Another two days pass and he's moved through the nineties and into the 2000s, having knowledge of many new things but no memories to accompany them. The knowledge is selective, too. He knows how to fly a quinjet, drive a car, avoid the latest security cameras, and what new phones look like, but he doesn't know what the Internet is or what pop culture is. He swipes a paper from the street and learns that it is April 17, 2014. He thinks it's been almost two weeks since the Helicarriers went down. 

***

He wakes abruptly to a quiet sound, the scent of people meeting his nose and footsteps treading lightly outside the apartment door. He's wearing soft pants and a long-sleeved shirt, no shoes, only his knife tucked into his waistband, and he berates himself for letting his guard down. The apartment is dark and quiet in the early hours of the morning but he hears the quiet countdown of the agents behind the door, hears the distinctive click of weapons and smell of gunpowder. He surges to his feet just as they burst through the door, guns trained on him.

"Stand down, soldier."

_No._ The soldier knows he can't go back. He  _can't._ He turns and runs, gunfire erupting behind him and fire exploding in his side as he crashes through the window, landing on the street below. Shards of glass cut his feet and his side burns but he ignores it, taking off down the street. He keeps to the shadows, easy in the darkness, and makes convoluted loops through streets to throw of the agents. He doesn't know how they found him, but he can't let them take him, he knows this. He feels himself growing weaker with blood loss as he goes, the silver bullet burning into his side, and he knows he needs medical attention. His mind blurs and he can't think clearly, only following the thread in his chest. Steve will know what to do. It takes over an hour to reach Sam's house, doubling back through streets and dodging civilians to stay out of sight as the sun begins to rise over the horizon. The house appears to be empty and the soldier breaks the lock on the back door, slipping inside. He stumbles to the kitchen table, shirt soaking through with blood, and turns a chair slightly to sink into it, withdrawing his knife and placing it on the table along with his metal arm as he waits.

He hears the door opens and footsteps sound, the warmth in his chest growing brighter as he feels Steve approach.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Sam and Steve walk into the kitchen and stop short, Sam jumping as his heart rate spikes.

"Holy shi-"

Steve stares. "Bucky?" he breathes.

The soldier doesn't respond, the world blurring slightly around him as he focuses on staying awake. Steve and Sam are both sweaty and slightly flushed, wearing loose clothes and sneakers. Steve takes a step towards him but Sam stops him with a hand, expression wary.

"Steve. It could be a trap."

Steve rakes his eyes over the soldier, taking in the blood staining his shirt and expression going concerned. "You're hurt."

Sam shakes his head. "Steve," he says warningly. He turns to the soldier. "How'd you get that?"

"Hydra," the soldier rasps.

Sam blinks. "So you're not Hydra anymore?"

"No." The soldier frowns. "I don't know."

"That's not very reassuring," Sam says. 

"It's not a yes," Steve points out.

"Yeah, still not reassuring." Sam jerks his head at the soldier. "You here to hurt us?"

"No."

"The knife on the table says otherwise."

The soldier frowns. No, the knife is there for them. Slowly, telegraphing his movements, he pushes the knife further away from him with the metal hand.

"Great, you're giving us a knife," Sam says with a sarcastic edge to his voice. "I'm sure we'll be able to take you now."

"Sam-" Steve starts.

"I don't have any other weapons," the soldier says. He doesn't know what Sam wants from him. 

Sam studies him for a moment, then nods. "Okay. I appreciate the gesture. You're wounded. That why you're here? You want help?"

"Yes."

"Are you gonna try to kill me or Steve if I try and patch you up?"

"No."

Sam nods. "Good. Let me get my first-aid kit." He turns, leaving Steve and the soldier alone. Steve looks hesitant, as if unsure whether to approach. 

"You know me?" he finally says.

The soldier blinks slowly. "You're Steve. I read about you in a museum."

Steve takes a breath. "You pulled me from the river. Why?"

"I don't know," the soldier replies honestly.

Before Steve can say anything else Sam returns with a white box, setting it on the table and discreetly shoving the knife further away from the soldier. 

"Okay, it looks like you got shot, that right?"

"Yes."

"Do you need to..." Steve says, wiggling his wrist.

"Bullet out first," the soldier says. "Won't heal. Silver."

Steve's brow creases. "Silver? What does it do to you?"

"Burns."

"Oh." Steve swallows. 

"So we've gotta dig it out," Sam says, grimacing. "This will be fun. I don't have any pain meds, much less ones that will work on you. Just try not to kill me." He steps closer to the soldier, heart rate still fast and the soldier sensing his fear. "Let's get your shirt off so I can have a look."

The soldier complies, reaching up to tug it off even though it makes the bullet wound burn with pain in protest.

"Oh," Sam says, as the soldier tosses the shirt to the floor, "I didn't think you would-oh my god." Sam stares at his chest and there's an intake of breath from Steve, the soldier blinking heavily through the blurriness that has crept into his vision.

"Oh god," Steve whispers.

Sam seems to shake himself. "Right. GSW." He grabs a pair of tweezers from the med kit, tearing open a small rectangular package and wiping them off as the smell of antiseptic stings the soldier's nose. He crouches down next to the chair, peering at the bullet wound in the soldier's right side. "Okay, I'm going to try and dig this out. Just tell me if you need me to stop, or if you're about to take my head off or something."

He places a tentative hand on the soldier's side, pulling at the wound slightly as the other hand moves forward with the tweezers, working at the bullet lodged a couple inches in. The soldier stares straight ahead, staying perfectly still as Sam works, only blinking slightly when especially sharp pain zings through it. Sam pauses and looks up.

"You doing okay? This must hurt like hell."

The soldier doesn't know how to respond.  _Okay_ is not a valid measure. Does Sam want to know if he is functional? Or if he's going to resist? What does he want? The soldier realizes he's stayed quiet too long when Sam pulls back, and slight panic claws at him. He hadn't responded.

"Hey, I'm not going to continue until I have an answer. You okay?"

The soldier blinks, eyes roving as he searches for an answer. Based on Sam's previous comments, he's worried about the soldier hurting him. "I will not hurt you," the soldier finally says. 

"That is...not really what I asked," Sam says. "But, uh, that's great." He shakes his head and goes back to work, leaving the soldier confused. Finally Sam manages to latch onto the bullet, pulling it out with the tweezers. He looks around for somewhere to put it, grimacing. "I'm not getting my table bloody. Here, hold this for now." He gestures with the tweezers and the soldier holds out his right hand, Sam dropping the bullet into it. The silver burns his palm but he stays still, arm unmoving as Sam stands up and reaches to grab bandages.

"Wait," Steve says. "Didn't you say silver burns?"

"Yes."

Sam whips around. "Is it burning you right now?"

"Yes."

"Jesus fucking-" Sam grabs the bullet from the soldier's hand, staring at the small burn in the center of his palm, eyes flicking up to the scars wrapping around the soldier's wrist and tightening. "Why didn't you say anything?"

The soldier frowns, confused. "I...you didn't....say to."

Sam takes a deep breath. "Jesus Christ. Right. Okay. Well, I'm saying it now. If something hurts, you tell me, okay?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now, I don't have stitches so I'm just going to bandage this. I assume it'll heal pretty fast now that the bullet's out, especially if you, you know..." Sam swallows. "Drink blood." He deposits the bullet on a gauze pad and takes a swab and cleans the wound before taping a bandage over it, nodding. "Okay, great. Any other injuries?"

"Feet."

Sam crouches down, taking the soldier's bare feet to look at them and wincing. "Yeah, you've got glass stuck in here. I'll have to get it out." He grabs the tweezers and disinfects them again before settling on the ground and picking up the soldier's right foot first as he starts to pull the shards out. The soldier stays unmoving, drifting off into his head slightly, feeling Steve's worried gaze on him. The soldier was going to finish off the blood in the bag today, not having fed for a week, but then Hydra had attacked and he'd lost even more. Hunger claws at his insides and the world blurs, the soldier's eyes drooping and coldness creeping up.

"-arnes?" A hand taps his arm. "Hey, you with me?"

The soldier cracks open his eyes, not knowing when he had closed them. Both his feet are wrapped in white bandages, Sam looking wary as he withdraws his hand from the soldier's arm. The soldier blinks heavily. Sam had asked a question. He has to respond.

"Yes."

"You need to feed?" Steve questions from behind Sam.

"Yes."

Steve steps forward but Sam stops him with a hand.

"Uh, Steve, are you sure this is the best idea? What if he, you know....kills you?"

Steve's mouth firms. "He won't. And he won't heal without it. I've done this before."

Sam steps back, still watching the soldier warily as Steve hesitantly steps closer, extending his wrist.

"Here," he says softly. "Take as much as you need."

The hunger is sharp and insistent but something tugs at the soldier and he squints at Steve, remembering shooting him. "Are you...healed?"

Steve's face softens. "Yeah. I'm fine. You won't hurt me."

The soldier hesitantly takes Steve's wrist with his right hand, leaving the metal one on the table. His skin is warm under the soldier's hand and the smell of him is intoxicating and  _right,_ and the soldier brings Steve's wrist to his mouth and sinks his fangs in, the feeling like nothing he remembers but familiar at the same time. Steve's blood tastes like sunlight and goodness and  _home,_ better than anything he can remember and filling him with warmth that spreads through him, saturating everything with Steve. He almost loses himself in the sensation and has to bring himself back, withdrawing his fangs and licking over Steve's wrist before releasing him. He feels full and warm and brimming with life, injuries tingling as they heal and hunger completely gone for the first time in memory. He takes a deep breath, body relaxing and something in his chest settling into place.

"Better?" Steve asks softly.

The soldier nods.

"I can't believe I just watched that happen," Sam says. "Vampires, seriously." Suddenly he narrows his eyes at the soldier suspiciously. "How often do you have to feed?"

"I don't know." The soldier thinks. "A week if not injured."

"It's been two weeks, and you were injured on the Helicarrier," Sam says, voice hard. "That tells me you fed. How?"

"Hospital."

Sam looks stricken and even Steve blinks in horror. "You-you fed on injured people at the hospital?" 

The soldier feels his eyebrow twitch upwards slightly and something like irritation rise. "No. Blood bags."

"Oh." Both Steve and Sam breathe a sigh of relief. "Yeah, that's-that's good," Sam says. "And I don't want to ask, but, the Shield agent you got your jacket from, is he...?"

"Alive. Rendered unconscious."

Sam nods, looking relieved. "Great. That's...real good to know. Not...killing people. Good. It's progress. I mean, two weeks ago you tried to kill me, so...."

The soldier frowns. "Sorry."

Sam smiles slightly, huffing out a short laugh. "I appreciate that. You're not going to try again though, right? I mean, I kinda think twice is enough for me."

"No." The soldier looks up at Sam, confused. "Twice?"

Sam raises an eyebrow. "Yeah. The causeway, and the the Helicarrier. I mean, on the causeway you were going after Steve and Nat more, but you did rip the steering wheel out of my car."

The soldier searches, eyes roving back and forth. The causeway, the causeway...he doesn't remember any causeway, or ripping out Sam's steering wheel.

There's an intake of breath from Steve. "You don't remember."

The soldier's gaze flicks to him. "No."

Steve looks stricken. "So on the Helicarrier, you didn't remember meeting me before?"

"No."

Sam is staring at him. "So they used the-the mind wipe thing on you? After the causeway?"

"Yes."

"And you didn't remember anything."

"No."

Sam runs a hand over his face, Steve still looking unbearably sad. "They do that every time?"

He frowns. "No." He doesn't think so. "I...failed, I think."

"Because you didn't kill Steve."

"Yes."

"So they just erased it and sent you back out, a clean slate?"

The soldier shift slightly, heart rate picking up and memories of pain and hands on him, a voice in his ear, the connection in his chest locked away tightly. "No," he says. He swallows.

Steve frowns. "What do you mean?"

"I remember...some things. Important things. Every time. And I was...compromised." His hand goes to his chest unconsciously, Steve tracking the movement. "Corrective measures were taken to ensure mission success."

"Does that....does that mean what I think it means?" Sam murmurs, voice tinged with horror.

"Oh god," Steve says. "The connection. What did they..."

"Connection?" Sam questions.

"There's some sort of...connection between us. Bucky always said he could...feel me, somehow. We thought it was because he had been feeding on me." Steve looks at the soldier, taking a breath and looking almost hopeful. "Is it...still there?"

"Yes."

"And it was there when we fought. You said you were...compromised. Is that what you meant?"

"Yes."

"And they did something to make you...." Steve trails off, swallowing. 

"Corrective measures," Sam repeats numbly. "I don't want to think about what that means."

"But you didn't kill me," Steve says. "They did all that, and you didn't kill me." He's looking at the soldier with a mixture of grief and awe and the soldier looks away, the gaze feeling overwhelming in it's intensity.

"In the interest of full disclosure," Sam says, "We have a file on you. It doesn't say a lot, but we know they wiped your memory and some of their notes about you. I think....I think your memories might come back eventually, if they had to keep wiping them."

The soldier digests this. It seems accurate. This means that he will get Barnes' memories, even though he is not Barnes. He is not sure what to think about this.

"What _do_ you remember?" Steve questions hesitantly. 

The soldier searches his mental catalogue, reciting the answer that is always expected. "I am the Winter Soldier. I am not human. I am a vampire. I serve Hydra. Hydra is making the world a safer place. Alexander Pierce: primary handler. Brock Rumlow: secondary field handler."  _My body is not my own. I have no control. I do not question. I deserve this,_ he thinks, but he does not say. It is not expected.  _Pain,_ he thinks, but this too is not expected.

There's a moment of stunned silence. 

"That's.... _everything_ you remember?" Sam asks incredulously.

"No. I remember...other things. Knowledge. Training. Relevant information."

"But you don't actually  _remember_ anything?" Steve questions. "Like real memories?"

The soldier hesitates. "I remember training and corrections. Some missions."

Sam shakes his head. "Still, that's...." He squints at the soldier. "You know Pierce is dead, right?"

The soldier blinks. "No."

"Oh. Well, he is. And Rumlow's disappeared. Might be dead too. Last I saw him he was being crushed under a building."

The soldier digests this. He has no handlers anymore, except maybe Steve and Sam now. Rumlow is gone.  _Rumlow is gone._

"And you know they...lied to you," Steve says carefully. "Hydra wasn't making the world a safer place. They were bad. Do you...understand that?"

The soldier's head pounds and he doesn't know, he doesn't understand, he is not Hydra anymore and Steve is good and not Hydra but it's all too confusing and he hunches slightly, feeling lost. "I don't know," he says quietly. 

"We can come back to that," Sam says, shooting Steve a glance out of the corner of the soldier's eye. "As long as you're not trying to kill me or Steve that's good enough for now."

There's a moment of silence. "Come on," Steve finally says. "Let's get you some new clothes that aren't soaked with blood."

The soldier gets up and follows him down a hallway to a bedroom, stepping inside. Steve rifles around in the closet and comes up with a pair of soft pants and a t-shirt, holding them out with a small smile.

"Looks like you've already been wearing my clothes. We're about the same size."

The soldier strips off his pants, Steve startling. "Oh, you-" He turns away slightly, still holding out the clothes as he keeps his eyes firmly averted. The soldier takes the new pants and pulls them on before slipping the shirt over his head as well. Steve turns back, nodding in approval. "Alright. Sam and I need to shower and make breakfast. I know you don't need to eat but if you want to..."

The soldier doesn't respond, following Steve back into the kitchen.

"I call shower first," Sam says. "You barely even broke a sweat."

Steve chuckles, moving to the stove to put a pan on it and turn the burner on as Sam disappears down the hallway. Steve takes out a carton of eggs from the fridge, cracking them into the pan as the soldier sits back down in the chair. He spots the knife on the table but leaves it, the first-aid kid packed away on the end. An awkward silence descends as Steve focuses on cooking and the soldier sits silently in the chair, watching, Steve glancing at him occasionally. He seems nervous, but not afraid of the soldier. More as if he's not sure what to do. It's strange.

Finally Sam returns, freshly showered, taking over the stove as Steve goes down the hallway. The eggs finish cooking and Sam brings the pan to the table, piling slices of toast from the toaster on a plate and sitting down across from the soldier. 

"So, I guess you don't need to eat," he says, "but Steve says you can so if you want to, go ahead."

The soldier stays still. He doesn't eat. He doesn't have wants. 

Sam shrugs and starts to pile two plates high with eggs as Steve comes back, looking nervous until he spots the soldier and he relaxes, sliding into the chair next to the soldier and taking the plate Sam gives him. 

"So." Steve breaks the silence, shoving a forkful of eggs into his mouth. "Where have you been staying, Buck? Sam says you were in my apartment."

"The apartment."

Steve pauses with the fork halfway to his mouth. "You mean you went back, after? You've been there this whole time?"

"Yes."

Steve shoots Sam a look and Sam raises his hands slightly in a shrug. 

"Don't look at me. I swore he wouldn't go back. I wouldn't have."

"Why did you?" Steve questions.

"You said I wouldn't go back. You wouldn't look there."

Sam leans forward. "Hold up. How would you know that...." His eyes widen. "You were here. You overheard us."

"Yes."

Steve turns to look at him fully. "You were here? How much-" He swallows. "How much did you hear?"

"Only that. And part of the file."

Sam frowns. "That means you came back another time, days later. Why?"

"I don't know. To-" He trails off, swallowing.

"To what?" Steve prods.

"To make sure you were safe," the soldier says quietly. 

Steve inhales and his face crumples slightly, eyes brimming with tears. "Buck-" he breathes. He takes a deep breath and composes himself slightly, looking at the soldier with the same adoration as in the films and the soldier has to look away, something aching in his chest. 

"Hydra found me," he says. "At the apartment. They will keep looking."

Steve squares his shoulders, face hard. "We won't let them find you."

"Barnes, you were kept somewhere in the city, right?" Sam questions. "There's a base?"

"Yes."

"Could you tell us where it is?"

"Yes. The bank."

"The address?" Sam presses.

"I don't know. I know where it is."

Sam nods. "Can you take us to it?"

"Yes."

"Sam-" Steve starts. "He shouldn't come with. It's too dangerous."

"I know, but we don't have any other option. And it's his choice." Sam turns to the soldier. "You're not going to have a problem with taking down Hydra, are you?"

"It fits within mission parameters," the soldier finally says.

"What mission is that?"

"Protect Steve."

***

They wait a few hours until the soldier is completely healed, Sam and Steve questioning the soldier on the layout of the base and the number of personnel. The soldier is dressed in a spare pair of Steve's tac pants and a t-shirt, Sam reluctantly giving him weapons that the soldier tucks away in various places. Then they climb in the car, the soldier in the backseat and Sam continuously glancing in the rear-view mirror to check on him. The soldier tells them where to turn, the car finally drawing up across from the bank. 

"Ready?" Steve asks.

"Ready," Sam replies. "Barnes?"

He calculates optimal response. "Ready." 

They get out of the car, making their way around to the back entrance of the bank before Steve kicks the door down. He throws his shield, knocking down the guards posted before catching it again. 

"Lead the way," he tells the soldier.

The soldier walks towards the elevator, pressing his hand to the biometrics. The doors open and they step inside, descending. It opens up into the familiar hallway, though it feels strange to be walking through here but not with Hydra. It's fairly deserted, and the soldier leads the way to the room with the chair, stepping inside. Immediately guards whirl at their approach and the soldier takes them out, shooting them between the eyes. He turns the gun on the techs, who cower in the corner with hands raised, and pauses.

"I understand," Bowtie says, meeting the soldier's eyes evenly. "I knew this day would come. I don't blame you. I should've put a stop to all of this years ago. I was young, and scared of Pierce, and I believed in Hydra, but not in what was done to you. I should've tried harder to stop it."

"Both of us should have," Glasses says. "You were necessary, but not everything that was done to you was."

The soldier's hand trembles around the gun. He remembers gentle hands and soft voices,  _I'm sorry,_ the pain washing away, kind eyes meeting his own.

"Barnes," Sam says warningly behind him.

"I'm sorry," Bowtie says, eyes full of honesty. 

The soldier's hand lowers. He  _can't._ He can't kill them. 

Steve and Sam move forward, grabbing the techs and snapping handcuffs around their wrists as the soldier stands in the middle of the room, gun hanging limply from his hand. Steve and Sam leave the techs handcuffed in the corner and approach the soldier warily, Sam's heart rate spiking.

"Barnes, you still with us?" he asks.

"Yes."

Sam sighs in relief. "We're gonna give them to the authorities. We'll clear the base and head out before calling it in. Okay?"

"Yes."

Sam turns to where Steve is staring at the chair, expression full of rage. A muscle jumps in his jaw. Finally he shakes himself, moving on. The soldier stays where he is, unable to make his feet move as Steve passes the nook with the cryo chamber and pushes through the door of the cell. There's a sharp inhale and then Steve steps back out, face pale. 

"What?" Sam questions, moving forward to see for himself. Steve just makes a small sound and Sam pushes past him, stopping in the doorway. There's an audible swallow. "Oh."

Steve's eyes flick to the soldier and the soldier looks away. 

"We're done here," Steve says roughly. 

"We really trust the authorities to handle this?" Sam questions, turning and stepping back into the room. "We're technically harboring a terrorist. This base gives them all the dots to connect, especially if there's security footage." He nods to the camera in the corner.

Steve hesitates. "If we don't turn over the evidence, can they use that against us?"

Sam shrugs. "It's the government. They can do whatever they want. They won't care that Barnes is a victim. They'll either lock him up somewhere or kill him outright. Say he's dangerous. Which, yeah, true, but so are you. I'd say...call in Stark on this one.  If it comes to an indictment, Stark's got lawyers coming outta his ass, and there's no way the evidence can be tampered with if you're holding it."

Steve nods, looking considering. "Yeah, that might work. I'll get Hill in on this too. What about these guys?" He nods to the techs. "They'll probably spill everything."

"Stark tower? Oh, sorry,  _Avengers_ tower. It must have secure rooms. We can keep them there, find out what they know. It's a little bit like kidnapping but you're an Avenger. I think they give you some leeway."

"That sounds like a good plan. Let's grab the security tapes and any files and I'll call Stark." Steve pulls out his phone, tapping on it and bringing it to his ear.

"Stark. I need something." Steve moves out of the room, his voice trailing off as Sam turns to the soldier.

"You doing alright?"

He thinks this is a question to assess functionality. "Yes."

"Good. Okay, so we got security cameras, feeds are probably upstairs. You know if they have any files?"

"I don't know."

"Right. Well, let's go upstairs then."

They head down the hallway past Steve, getting in the elevator and ascending. Sam moves to the tellers' desks in the main floor of the bank, searching for something.

"Here we go," Sam mutters. There's a cubicle containing a screen with a feed of the room with the chair, showing Steve stepping into the room and grabbing the techs, starting to walk them out. Sam takes the hard drive, the screen going black. "Okay, now for files." Sam roots around in the file cabinets under the desk, pulling out files and stacking them on the desk. "We'll take everything, just in case. Looks like they didn't go digital." There's an old tape and a flash drive in one of the files and he collects those as well, the label on the tape in Cyrillic. "Alright, help me take these to the car."

Sam takes a stack and the soldier takes the other, following Sam out of the bank to deposit them in the trunk. Then they go back into the bank, where Steve is waiting with the techs. 

"Hill's coming to pick them up," Steve informs them. "She'll make sure everything's airtight." He hesitates. "It would probably be best for me to be at the Tower. Sam, you don't have to come-"

"I'm coming."

"Are you sure?"

"One hundred percent." Sam turns to the soldier. "Would you be willing to go to the Tower? No one's gonna force you, but it'd make things a lot easier."

He'll do whatever they want him to do. "Yes."

Steve looks relieved. "Alright, that's settled. We'll leave as soon as you're ready, Sam."

"I've been ready for a week. We can leave anytime."

"Tomorrow morning, then."

"Sounds good."

The soldier hears the crunch of tires outside and turns, tensing. Footsteps sound and a woman strides through the door, dark hair pulled back into a bun.

"Captain Rogers. Mr. Wilson." She narrows her eyes at the soldier, coming to a stop in front of them. "And you must be Sergeant Barnes." She jerks her head at Steve. "He on our side now?"

Steve nods and she relaxes minutely.

"Alright. I'm here for these two. I'll see you at the tower." She grabs the techs, starting to lead them to the door.

"Wait." Hill pauses and Bowtie turns, locking eyes with the soldier. "Rumlow's alive. They found him. He's wounded, but he's alive. He'll come for you."

Hill jerks his arm. "Is that a threat?"

Bowtie shakes his head, eyes still trained on the soldier. "No, it's a warning. I wish that son of a bitch really was dead." He swallows. "I'm sorry," he repeats.

"Come on." Hill tugs on his arm and he turns, the three of them disappearing through the door. 

The soldier stares after them, anxiety churning in his gut. Rumlow will come for him, and he knows how that ends. 

"Buck, you okay?" Steve questions softly.

The soldier shakes himself, snapping back into blank focus. "I am functional," he responds flatly.

Steve sighs quietly. "Okay, let's go."

The soldier follows him back to the car, sliding into the back seat. Sam starts the car and they pull away, the soldier staring blankly out the window as dread settles deep in his gut. 

 


	3. Chapter 3

They trudge into the house, the soldier immediately removing all his weapons and setting them on the table, stepping back. 

"Oh great, just what I wanted, weapons on my table," Sam grumbles. He sighs. "At least there's no blood. I eat here, for God's sake."

"Here, I'll take them," Steve says, scooping them up and heading towards his bedroom. He returns a second later, eyes drawn to the soldier's automatically, as if he can't bear to look away for a second. It's unnerving.

Sam opens the fridge. "Well, I don't know about you but I'm starving." He pulls out a package of thinly sliced meat and a jar labeled mayonnaise, grabbing a bag of bread and beginning to make a sandwich. The soldier sits at the table again with metal palm flat on the table as Steve makes three sandwiches, sliding back into the seat on the soldier's right. 

"So, everything straightened out with Stark?" Sam asks, sitting down across from them. 

Steve nods. "He said he's got a floor ready for us, and a team of lawyers if we need them. Also, he wants to take a look at the stuff we found in the base. He's been decrypting Hydra files and sending them to Fury."

Sam's eyes slide to the soldier. "Er, probably don't remember that, either?"

The soldier frowns. "What?"

"Trying to kill Fury. Also, you didn't succeed. He's alive."

"I don't remember."

"That's okay," Steve says. "You don't have to right now."

The soldier looks down, feeling a faint frustration. He's apparently done a lot of things he doesn't even remember, things that are important. It's obvious that Steve is unhappy about it, and the soldier knows what happens when people are unhappy with him.

Steve and Sam finish their sandwiches in silence, the soldier lost in though. His head pounds, making him squint slightly against the lights in the kitchen, and he feels distinctly unsettled. The blankness offered by the wipes has started to fade, and everything is new and overwhelming. He has few memories, and those are only of pain and orders. He's never been away from Hydra for this long that he can remember, has never had to interact with people for such extended periods of time and figure out responses. People always gave him orders and he followed. He didn't have to hold a conversation. He didn't have to question what is right and wrong. Hydra was simple. Everything now is complicated, and he suddenly yearns for the peace of cryosleep. He doesn't want to think. He doesn't want to remember. It's all too much.

"-ucky?"

He blinks back to awareness, squinting against the pain in his head and seeing Steve and Sam looking at him worriedly.

"You back with us?" Sam questions.

The soldier glances around, confused. Where had he gone? He's right here. Had he lost time again?

"Yes?" he says hesitantly.

Sam nods. "Okay, good. You kinda went away on us for a little bit. You know why?"

"No."

"That's alright. Sometimes it just happens. I'm guessing you got some, uh, pretty significant brain damage too."

Is that why his head hurts? He remembers Sam's order- _tell me if something hurts._ "Head hurts," he ventures, watching Sam for a reaction.

Sam just nods and the soldier relaxes slightly. "Makes sense. We can have Stark check it out at the tower if you want. I'm sorry we can't do anything for it right now." Sam pauses. "Thank you for telling me," he adds. "Me and Steve always want to know if you're hurting so we can help make it better."

They want to...help, not hurt? Maybe they think this will increase functionality, like the techs, but this is not right. Maybe they think he isn't functional now. 

"I am functional," the soldier tries. "It is just pain."

"Bucky, no," Steve says, sounding wounded. "It matters. You shouldn't be in pain."

He looks over at Steve, questioning. "Why?"

"Because...it's not right. You don't deserve that."

He doesn't-he doesn't deserve it? No, that's not right.  _Remember you deserve this._ But he can't question so he looks away and stays silent, confused and unsettled, frustration growing.

"You want to take a shower?" Steve asks. "That might help your headache, and plus you were kinda bleeding all over a few hours ago."

He's not sure why Steve is asking him questions he can't answer. He doesn't have wants. The frustration builds. Steve is looking at him expectantly, genuinely wanting an answer, and the soldier's mind whirls as he tries to figure out the optimal response.

"Yes?" he finally says, scanning Steve's face to see if this was the desired response.

It was. Steve nods, getting up. "Here, I'll show you where it is." The soldier follows him down the hallway and into the bathroom, where Steve stops awkwardly. "Do you, uh, do you know how to work it?"

"Yes." He knows how to work a shower.

"Okay, great, I'm going to grab some clean clothes for you. I'll be right back."

Steve ducks out and the soldier strips, turning on the shower and running a hand under the spray. He senses Steve come back into the room behind him but doesn't turn, knowing exactly where he is without having to look at him.

There's a sharp intake of breath. The soldier turns, seeing Steve looking horrified, eyes flicking from the soldier's back to his face. He sets down the bundle of clothes on the toilet seat, pointedly keeping his eyes on the soldier's. He clears his throat.

"I'll just...leave. The clothes are here. Feel free to use anything here. There's razors in the cabinet, if you want to shave."

The soldier doesn't respond and Steve turns and leaves, closing the door behind him. The soldier steps under the warm spray, feeling it unknot his tense muscles. He tips his head back, getting his hair wet, before grabbing the various soaps on the ledge and studying them. He selects the one that smells like citrus, reminding him of Steve, and follows the directions, putting a small blob in his hair and working it in before rinsing and repeating. There's a bar of white soap he uses to clean his body, the soap bumping unevenly over the scars that litter his skin. When he's sufficiently clean he steps out, drying with a towel and dressing in the soft pants and shirt waiting for him. He finds a razor in the cabinet, wiping away the fog in the mirror with a hand and stopping short at his reflection. 

He's only seen slices of his face in the mirror when he shaved in the base, and he knows what his face looks like from the museum, but the face staring back at him in the mirror is a stranger. With two weeks worth of stubble over pale skin, haunted blue eyes rimmed with shadows, and long hair hanging around his face in wet strands, he looks nothing like the man in the museum even though it's unmistakably him. They have the same cheekbones, the same cleft chin, the same blue eyes with crinkles at the corner, though the soldier has more. It's Barnes, but not. There's a scar on the side of his throat, a sharp slash that Barnes didn't have but the soldier doesn't remember getting. He runs the razor under the sink and raises it to his face, hacking away at the growing stubble. It's never been this long before. When he finishes there's only a five-o'clock shadow left, and he looks more like Barnes than before. The soldier could be him, except that he's not, not inside. He wears Barnes' face, but Barnes died long ago. 

Something aches in his chest and he turns away, opening the door and walking down the hallway, finding Steve and Sam in a small room with a couch and chairs. They look up when he enters, Steve's eyes going soft and sad the way they often do when he looks at the soldier.

"Hey man, you clean up well," Sam says. "Come sit down."

The soldier sits on the opposite end of the couch from Steve, Sam in the armchair perpendicular to the couch near Steve's end. The soldier brings his legs up, curling slightly into the corner of the couch as he takes in Steve and Sam's relaxed postures, feeling exhaustion wash over him. It's been a long day, from getting woken by Hydra to getting shot to coming here and then going to the base, and it's barely afternoon. He feels wrung out, his head pounding and every nerve in his body crackling with overstimulation, fear and frustration and confusion warring within him. It's too much. Everything is too much. 

"It's been quite a day, huh?" Steve says, as if reading his mind. "Yesterday I had no idea where you were. This morning you were bleeding out in the kitchen. Now...you're here."

"It must be a lot to handle," Sam adds. "You probably weren't planning on coming to us before you got shot, were you?"

"No." The soldier hesitates. "I don't know."

"So maybe eventually you would have, but Hydra forced your hand before you were ready. That's gotta suck."

"We don't....expect anything from you," Steve says. "You don't have to be ready. We just want to help."

The soldier doesn't respond. He is too tired to even think about Steve's words. It's too much. He just wants to rest.

"Why don't we start packing," Sam says, shooting a significant look at Steve. "We'll give you some time. Take a nap, whatever you want."

The soldier blinks heavily. Sam and Steve get up, exiting the room as the soldier relaxes into the cushions. Sam said he could sleep, and the soldier's head droops as he finds himself sinking into darkness.

***

He wakes slowly, murmured voices meeting his ears from the kitchen.

"-scars..."

"I know. You should've seen the bottom of his feet. And the ones around his ankles and wrist..."

"Restraints. God, that room. I can't even imagine."

"How are you holding up?"

There's a sigh. "I don't even know. Everything happened so fast. I don't think I've really processed yet that he's actually here. It feels like a dream."

"A nightmare, more like."

A soft chuckle. "Yeah. You know, some of this is actually familiar. Some of those scars were there before, and he used to do the same thing, where he'd go away into his head. But we never really...talked about it. We were never great at communication, and we were trying to be better, but it was war. You just had to keep going. Bucky said once that if he talked about it, it would...make it real, I guess. He said it wouldn't stop. He just...pushed it down and kept going. Said he was fine. But he wasn't. I should've made him go home. I was selfish. I wanted him to stay with me, but I only got him kill-well, captured, I guess."

"It's not your fault, Steve. Barnes chose to stay. God knows he hasn't had much choice in seventy years, don't take that away from him too."

"I know. I just always thought, what if? What if I reached further, what if he didn't get on that train, what if he went home after Azzano and never got tortured again? So many things I could've done to save him. And because I have an eidetic memory, I can't forget. I can see every detail of the mission, what I could've done differently. I can still remember exactly what Bucky looked like strapped to that table all cut up, and the exact sound of his screams. It's almost funny. He can't remember anything, and I can't forget it."

"That's....a lot, Steve. A lot of shit to carry."

"Yeah, well, he's got worse."

"It's not a competition. Yeah, Barnes has been through some shit, but so have you. It's okay to, you know, not be okay once in a while."

"I'm Captain America. It's not really an option."

"Hey, like I said before, you can do whatever you want. You can  _be_ whoever you want. You can say 'fuck Captain America' and grow a beard and live in a cabin in the woods if that's what you want. You already said fuck the government. You're harboring a vampire terrorist who happens to be you brainwashed best friend from the 40s. The rules are out the window on this one, Steve."

Steve laughs. "That...actually makes me feel better. Everything is pretty crazy. Sometimes I wish I could go back to the time when the strangest thing science ever created was me. There's fucking  _aliens,_ Sam. Aliens. And Gods who are also aliens." There's a beat of silence. "Bucky would have loved it. He loved science."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Today people would've called him a 'nerd.' He wanted to be an engineer. Wicked smart. Could do calculations in his head like it was nothing."

"Can't you do that too?"

"Yeah. After the serum, not so much before. I was more an artist, and I was good at tactics and strategy. Bucky was good at wrangling the men and calculating shit but he wasn't great at seeing the big picture." Steve chuckles. "He always called my plans dumb, but he followed them because he knew they were good. He was just overprotective, so he had to give me shit about always taking the most fire. He was our marksman, that's what he was good at. He could shoot a hair off your head from a hundred yards. Never missed. We worked well together. I had a tactical mind and he had a mathematical one. I'd make the plans and do the fighting, relying more on what felt right and worked best, and big picture strategies, and Bucky'd spend hours doing calculations just to figure out how to make impossible shots. I was the one who flung the shield first on instinct, but Bucky did the calculations on how to throw it best so it would come back to me. I still use them today."

"I had no idea about any of that. I knew you were brilliant, but I guess I always thought of Barnes as just a soldier. I can see Barnes being smart, though, now. He looks kinda dead behind the eyes most of the time, but every so often you see the wheels turning and you realize someone's in there. I think he's always thinking. Like, he looks totally blank, but I think there's a lot going on underneath. He's just real good at not letting it show."

"Yeah. It's more now, but he could do that during the war. He always had a facade. Never let anyone see what he was really thinking or feeling, even me most of the time. Sometimes I'd have to needle at him to get past his walls, have to make him angry before he'd finally let me in. I could deal with him then, but I don't know what to do now. I can't press like that. He doesn't even remember me, so it's like there's nothing to stand on. Back then, Bucky always knew I cared even when I made him mad, and it was just how we worked. We were pretty rough with each other. But I do that now and he won't trust me. He won't understand."

"Yeah, I gotta admit I'm out of my depth on this one. I'm used to working with vets, not brainwashed assassins. There's no precedent for what he went through."

"And we don't even know what he went through. All we've got to go on is scars, a torture room, and that his memories were wiped. We have no idea what they did to him."

"I'm not sure I want to know."

"Me neither. But if we want to help him, we have to, at least a little."

"I'm just warning you, it will definitely get worse before it gets better. Right now he only has a few memories, and all he knows is that he left Hydra and for some reason came to us. Everything's still new and overwhelming, and he's still in like, Winter Soldier mode. Calm and logical, following orders. He hasn't processed anything yet. Probably doesn't even realize he's traumatized cause it's just normal. When he does, and when memories come back, shit's gonna hit the fan. It won't be pretty. You bet I want him in the tower before that happens, because him plus trauma equals dangerous. I've seen it in vets. They have a nightmare or a flashback, end up nearly killing their spouse. This is gonna be like that, times ten. We're actually really lucky that right now he's still in brainwashed mode."

There's a beat of silence and then the soldier hears foosteps approach the door right before the doorbell rings, the soldier throwing himself off the couch into a fighting stance. Steve and Sam startle, looking over and then at the door.

"It's just food, Buck," Steve says in a reassuring tone. "We ordered dinner."

The soldier is not sure what that means and stays tensed as he hears Sam open the door and greet someone, the scent of food meeting the soldier's nose before the door closes and the footsteps retreat. The soldier moves to the kitchen, watching as Sam sets white boxes on the table and grabs plates and silverware, sitting down. The soldier slides into the seat on Steve's left again, peering suspiciously at the food. Steve puts some on his plate, glancing over at the soldier.

"You can order food now. It's amazing. We got Chinese."

They...ordered food? Without watching it be made? It could be poisoned, or tampered with. Steve goes to take a bite but the soldier reaches out quickly, grabbing his wrist. Steve freezes, meeting the soldier's eyes warily.

"Buck?"

"Not safe," the soldier says.

Steve blinks and his face softens. "Oh. I'm sure it's fine. We do this all the time. Would it make you feel better to try some before I eat it?"

"Yes." Steve's safety is paramount. The soldier releases Steve's wrist and Steve gives him the fork, the soldier bringing it to his mouth. He chews and swallows, not remembering eating but seeming to have muscle-memory. The taste is nothing he's experienced, much different from blood, and it's strange to have to chew. His mouth burns and he frowns, wondering if this means poison. He swallows, convulsively, throat starting to burn as well and suddenly he chokes slightly, fork falling and hand going to his throat as his airway constricts and he wheezes, eyes meeting Steve's horrified ones.

"Oh my-shit, is it poison?"

"I don't know," Sam is saying, sounding panicked. "I don't-"

The soldier wheezes, eyes streaming and hand scrabbling uselessly at his throat, metal one clutching the edge of the table and cracking it. There's hands on his face, Sam's voice echoing in front of him and face blurring in his vision. 

"It looks like...anaphylaxis? Wait, oh my god, that can't-garlic? Does he have a reaction to garlic?"

"I don't know. We never had any."

"Hold on. I've got an epipen somewhere." There's running footsteps and the soldier senses Steve in front of him, hands on his shoulders.

"I'm sorry. I had no idea this would happen."

The footsteps return and then there's a click. "Okay, I'm going to stab you with a needle, Barnes. Don't kill me." A hand finds his thigh and then there's a sharp pain and another click before the needle is removed. The soldier draws a rasping breath as the constriction in his throat starts to ease, Steve's hands still on his shoulders. His pulse races and he focuses on taking deep breaths, leaning into Steve's hands.

"Better?" Steve murmurs.

The soldier nods, unable to speak. 

"So. You're allergic to garlic," Sam says dryly. "Guess that part about vampires was true."

The soldier frowns. "Not...poison?" he rasps.

Sam shakes his head. "Nope. Epipen worked so definitely an allergic reaction. Ideally, now we'd take you to the hospital to give you steroids, but we can't really do that. You may need another dose of epinephrine in about five or ten minutes, or you could try and heal yourself with blood."

Steve takes his right hand off the soldier's shoulder, holding it up. "You need to?"

The soldier shakes his head. He can feel the blood already in him working to heal him, throat and mouth tingling and breaths evening out as his pulse finally slows.

"I am functional," he says hoarsely. 

Steve gives him a dubious look but doesn't press, withdrawing his hands. The soldier feels the loss of contact keenly. Sam walks back around the table, sliding into his seat and setting the epipen on the table.

"Okay, just let me know if you start feeling bad again and I'll give you another dose. I have a nephew with a peanut allergy so I always make sure to have at least one epipen here." He picks up his fork. "Sorry about this. We had no idea you'd be allergic to garlic. The food is fine, though. I've ordered it many times. See?" He takes a bite, the soldier watching apprehensively. Nothing happens and the soldier relaxes slightly, watching Steve take a bite as well. They both seem fine, the anxiety inside the soldier abating slightly and the connection in his chest assuring him that Steve is okay.

After dinner the soldier settles on the couch again, Steve taking the opposite end and Sam in the armchair. 

"You still doing okay?" Sam asks. "No more reaction?"

"Yes."

"That's good. I guess we know not to try that again." Sam leans forward. "So, listen, we're gonna go to the tower tomorrow. You know who Tony Stark is?"

"No."

"Okay, well he's a friend of Steve's, and he owns the tower. He's letting us stay there as long as we want. You'll be safe there."

Safe. He supposes Sam means that Hydra can't find him there. But what then? What do they want?

"Do you have any questions?" Steve asks, reading his mind again. "You can ask us anything."

Anything? The soldier hesitates. "What....after?"

"What's going to happen after we get to the tower?" Steve questions.

"Yes."

"We're going to try and help you get better. That's it."

The soldier's brow furrows. "Better?" Better than what?

"More...yourself. Recover your memories. Deal with, uh, everything you've been through."

"Why?"

"Because....we want to help you. You deserve to be okay."

The answer is unsatisfactory, and the soldier feels frustration rise. He doesn't know what  _help_ means. He doesn't deserve to-to be  _okay._ He's not a person. He's a machine. They think he needs to be fixed, and he feels a spike of panic at the thought.

"I am functional," he tries. He's not malfunctioning, he's  _not,_ he doesn't need a correction, he doesn't-

Steve winces. "Uh, yeah, you are...functional, but you're not...yourself. You've been brainwashed by Hydra. They erased your memories."

The soldier's head pounds. Not himself? What the-what the  _hell_ does that mean. He doesn't have a self. He's not a person. He knows Hydra erased Barnes' memories, but that was...that was to keep him functional. Un-compromised. But Hydra was...wrong. They made him hurt Steve, and he's supposed to protect him. But he is Hydra. They created him. They were making the world a safer place. He does his part. He doesn't-he doesn't know, it's too confusing, he just needs someone to tell him what to do, he doesn't want to think, he doesn't understand, it's too much, make it stop,  _make it stop-_

He jolts back to awareness, eyes flicking around the room wildly as he tries to determine where he is. He's on the couch, Steve sitting across from him and Sam in the armchair but it's darker and Steve and Sam are in different positions, time has passed, he's lost time-

"-ucky, hey, you back with us?" Steve questions.

The soldier's breathing settles, memory slotting into place. He was asking questions, and then everything went away. He lost time, and now he is here.

"Yes."

Steve nods. "It's been two hours, in case you wanted to know. We've been here the whole time."

"Was it...talking about Hydra that set you off?" Sam asks hesitantly.

"I don't know." He doesn't know anything, anymore.

"Okay. That's okay. Just know you can always tell us if something upsets you, or you don't understand."

"I don't understand," the soldier immediately responds.

Sam nods. "Okay. What don't you understand?"

The soldier searches. "Everything."

"I-" Sam looks saddened by this. "I'm sure. Everything must be very confusing. Just-" He scrubs his hand over his face. "I guess, for now, all you have to know is that we're not gonna hurt you, and you're safe. You got that?"

Not going to hurt him? That is...not true, but Sam is saying this is all he has to know so the soldier will comply. He is not allowed to question. 

"Yes," he says.

They sit a while more before Steve instructs him to get some sleep, giving him a blanket from the back of the couch. The soldier curls into the couch, the faint sounds of Steve and Sam getting ready for bed lulling him into sleep.

***

_Rumlow approaches, a predatory smile on his face-_

_There are hands on him, wrists straining against cuffs-_

_The metal clamps over his face and he screams-_

_Rumlow's face blurs in his vision, eyes glinting with menace-_

_It's dark and he can't breathe, water filling his mouth and nose-_

_"Not a word," Rumlow growls-_

_A hand strikes his face-_

_"Wipe him, and start over-"_

_A heavy weight pins him down, a hand wrapping around his throat-_

He jolts upright, gasping, panic whiting out his vision. Footsteps sound and figures blur before his eyes, voices swirling around him, the panic building and building as he chokes and gasps, body trembling and damp with sweat. 

"-ucky, it's okay, you're safe-"

The panic crests and everything stops.

***

He blinks, the world resolving in his vision. He's on the couch, Steve on the other end speaking quietly to Sam, and there is a blanket thrown over his legs. He shifts, metal shoulder sore, and Steve and Sam abruptly stop talking, turning to look at him.

"Hey," Steve says softly. The soldier blinks, gaze flicking between Steve and Sam. "You remember what happened?"

He thinks. Flashes, pain, waking, panic, and then everything going away. "Yes."

"Okay. You had a nightmare and then you went away for a few hours. It's morning now. We're going to head out soon. You want to take a shower first?"

The soldier gets up, following the implicit instruction and heading towards the bathroom, mind blank and numb. He turns on the shower and strips, getting in. A minute later there's a soft knock on the open door, the soldier sensing Steve.

"I've got some clothes for you. I'll leave them right here."

Steve leaves and the soldier washes robotically before drying off and pulling on the clothes, soft pants and a long-sleeved shirt with socks and athletic shoes. He doesn't bother shaving, having done it yesterday, and emerges from the bathroom to find Steve and Sam with duffel bags on the kitchen table.

"Ready to go?" Sam asks.

"Yes."

"Alright, let's head out."

The soldier follows them out to the car, getting in the backseat as they load their bags into the trunk and get in the front, Sam starting the car. The soldier stares out the window as they pull away, wet hair sending trails of water down his neck and dampening the neck of his shirt.

The drive takes approximately five hours. They stop for gas once, Steve and Sam buying food before continuing on. They talk quietly in the front, the soldier tuning out the conversation and retreating into blankness as the hours tick by, used to waiting for long stretches of time. As they approach the city the skyline sparks something in the soldier's mind, a sense of familiarity, of deja vu. They drive into Manhattan and up to a tall tower with an "A" on it, pulling into a small driveway in back in front of a solid door. A camera scans the car and then the door opens, Sam driving through into an underground parking garage. They get out of the car, the soldier rolling his shoulder slightly to work out the stiffness as Sam and Steve heft their bags, leaving the files and hard drive from the bank in the trunk for now. An elevator door opens in the wall and a dark-haired man with sculpted facial hair steps through, grinning when his eyes light on them.

"Cap, Wilson." He comes to a stop in front of them, eyes drawn to the soldier. "Barnes."

"Tony." Steve stretches out a hand to shake and the man- _Tony-_ takes it. "Thank you for doing this."

Tony waves a hand. "No problem. I've been begging you to move into the Tower for months. Should've known all it would take is the collapse of the government and a brainwashed best friend. How is that going, anyway?" He turns to the soldier. "Still trying to kill Cap?"

"No."

"Great." Tony claps his hands together. "I'll give you the tour, shall I? Follow me."

They follow him into the elevator, the close proximity making anxiety flutter in the soldier's stomach. Tony is strange, talking rapidly and gesturing wildly with his hands in a way that makes the soldier twitch, not comprehending half of what he says.

"-your own floor," Tony is saying. "Pepper decorated and everything. "Four bedrooms, two baths, a kitchen, a living room, anything you could want is already there, no need to worry. And the windows are bulletproof and one-way, everything sealed off. It's basically Hulk-proof. Nothing's getting in. Or out," he adds.

The elevator dings, the doors opening. They step out into a large open apartment, a kitchen to the left and living room to the right with a hallway in the center further back. Tony spreads his arms wide, gesturing around him.

"Ta-da. Your new home for the foreseeable future."

Steve steps forward, looking around with what looks like faint surprise. "This is great, Tony. I can't thank you enough."

"Hey, you let me take a look at that arm of his and we'll call it even." Tony nods to the soldier.

Steve hesitates. "Only if he wants to."

Tony raises his hands. "Sure, sure. Boundaries. But I will look at that arm eventually."

Steve sighs. "You want the files?"

Tony perks up. "Uh, yeah I want the files. Hand them over, Rogers."

"They're in the car. Let me get them." Steve hesitates, looking between the soldier and Sam. "Buck, you want to help me?"

The soldier blinks, calculating the optimal response, before nodding. He follows Steve back into the elevator, a brief silence falling.

"I know Tony's a lot," Steve says, "but he means well. Just tell him to stop if it gets to be too much."

The soldier doesn't respond. The elevator opens and they make their way to the car, dividing the stacks of files and hard drive between them wordlessly before returning to the floor. Tony hops in the elevator, directing them up to a lab where they set the files down, screens and equipment all around. 

"I will get started on these," Tony says. "It's a shame they didn't make them digital. It'll take forever to get through them. The hard drive though, I can have Jarvis look at that. I'll let you guys get settled in."

He's already working, examining the hard drive as the screens flicker to life. The soldier follows Steve back down to the floor, where Sam has already picked a room and set his bag down. Steve picks the next room and tells the soldier he can have whichever of the two left he wants. The soldier does not have wants, so he picks the room nearest to Steve to ensure he can protect him best. He does not have any things, but there are clothes already in the drawers that appear to be around his size, evidently meant for Steve. He doesn't look at the bed, skirting around it on his way out to explore the rest of the apartment. The bathroom is already stocked with toiletries, the living room harboring a plush couch and television and the appliances in the large kitchen new and shiny. There's even food in the fridge and cupboards, and Steve and Sam proceed to make more food for themselves as the soldier settles at the table, the unsettled feeling still pressing at him. 

"So Barnes, how are you doing?" Sam asks, sitting down across from him and taking a bite of his sandwich. "You had a rough morning. That the first time you've had a nightmare?"

"Yes."

Sam nods in understanding. "They may happen more often, as everything comes back. I'm not gonna lie, it won't be fun. There's probably a lot of shit you don't want to remember, and you haven't, you know, processed everything you do remember yet. There's no rush, though. You take as much time as you need, and we'll be right here to help. Understand?"

"Yes." He doesn't know if he does, but this is the correct response.

"Good. Now, speaking of memories, you said your head hurt. It's your choice, but I really think we should get a scan of your brain to see how much damage there is and what the outlook is. Would you be willing to do that?"

Judging from Sam's words, he wants the soldier to say yes. "Yes."

Sam nods, then looks up at Steve. "They can do that here, right?"

"I think so. I don't trust any doctors on this, but Dr. Banner is here and he already knows about Bucky. He has a medical degree. I'm sure with Stark's technology they can come up with something."

"Alright, yeah. We just have to find Dr. Banner."

"Dr. Banner is currently on the fortieth floor," an unknown voice says, and the soldier jumps out of his chair, searching around wildly. He hadn't sensed the person, which never happens. "My apologies," the voice continues. "I didn't mean to startle you, Sergeant Barnes. I am Jarvis, the artificial intelligence that resides in this building."

The soldier looks to Steve, watching for his reaction. Steve nods, raising a calming hand towards the soldier. "It's okay, Buck. Tony built Jarvis. He's just an AI."

The soldier relaxes slightly, searching the ceiling for speakers. They're faint, but there, and given the lack of other sensory information he accepts that the voice must be computerized.

"Should I inform Dr. Banner that you wish to see him?" Jarvis asks.

Steve nods. "That would be great. Thank you, Jarvis."

There's a minute of silence before the voice returns, making the soldier jump slightly. He's not used to being caught unawares.

"Dr. Banner would be happy to see you. He says for you to meet him on the thirty-ninth floor, where there is a scanner."

Steve nods again. "Great. Thank you." He turns to the soldier. "You good to do it now?"

"Yes."

"Okay, then let's go."

The soldier follows Steve and Sam back into the elevator, Steve pressing the button for the thirty-ninth floor. The elevator ascends smoothly, coming to a stop with a ding as the doors open. The room is filled with equipment, a large cylindrical machine further back and various other screens and wires scattered around. A man approaches, an air of nervousness around him as he fiddles with his glasses, something off about his scent that makes the soldier suspicious. His hair is dark but streaked with grey and he hunches slightly, making him appear shorter than he is. He stops a little ways away, giving a small wave.

"Hi, I'm Dr. Banner. You can, uh, call me Bruce."

The soldier doesn't respond. Bruce swallows, gaze flicking to Steve and Sam.

"So, uh, you wanted a scan?"

Sam nods. "He's got headaches. Stark tell you about the memory wiping?"

"Yeah." Bruce's gaze flicks back to the soldier briefly. "Only that it happened, not specifics. But yeah, it would be a good idea to do a scan. Actually, we should just do a scan of everything." He looks at the soldier. "You want to, uh, follow me?"

The soldier moves forward, Bruce blinking before turning and walking towards the machine with a hole in the middle, a small table positioned at the opening. Bruce pats the thin mattress on it.

"Okay, so you'll just lie on here with your head facing this direction and the table's going to move through the scanner. You'll hear some noise but nothing will happen to you. I want to do a full-body scan, especially because of...the arm, is that okay?"

"Yes."

"Okay, you can go ahead and lie down."

The soldier complies, lying with head nearest the scanner and feeling faint surprise when no cuffs snap around his wrists and ankles. Steve and Sam step up next to him, Steve looking down worriedly.

"You alright, Buck?"

"Yes."

"We'll be right here."

The soldier hears Bruce stand next to the scanner. "Okay, I'm going to start it." There's the click of a button and the table moves backwards, towards the scanner, as the soldier carefully keeps his breathing even and forces down the anxiety that pricks at him, making his mind blank as the scanner blots out his vision. The table stops and there's a whir and a clunk, the soldier's anxiety spiking as the whirring continues. He stays perfectly still, breaths shallow and body thrumming with tension. Finally the table moves again, stopping after a foot. Another minute and it moves again, then stops. The process repeats, his head emerging from the other side of the scanner as it moves down his body, the soldier relaxing slightly. When it finishes his feet the whirring sound fades and the table moves back through the scanner without stopping until it reaches it's original position. Everything is blurred around the edges, the soldier's breathing still shallow and body trembling slightly, the panic not abating.

"All done," Bruce says. "You can get up."

The soldier can't move. He is frozen, shudders going through his body as his breathing picks up, unknown panic whiting out everything.

"Buck, are you okay?" Steve sounds worried.

The soldier doesn't respond, can't, and then Steve is moving forward, leaning over the soldier slightly, face swimming in his vision, and the soldier has a flash, Steve's face with a helmet, superimposed on the real image, hands shaking his shoulders. Steve's hands move, reaching for him just as Sam says, "no, don't touch him-"

Steve's hands land on his shoulders and something snaps inside the soldier, everything going blank and numb and quiet as he retreats back into his mind.

 


	4. Chapter 4

He is walking. Voices swirl around him and there's a ding, movement under his feet. 

"-ome on-"

He is walking. He catches flashes of woods floors and white walls, voices speaking quietly. 

"-bad idea-"

"-here-"

He is sitting on something soft, figures blurring in his vision. A voice speaks, low and soothing, but it fades away into nothingness.

***

He blinks. He is not on the table, where is he, he's not, how did he get here, he's on a-on a couch, there are people nearby,  _how did he get here-_

"-ucky, Bucky, it's okay. You're in our apartment. You're safe."

He draws gasping breaths, eyes darting around the room wildly. The voice is-is  _Steve,_ Steve's here, he's in the apartment-

"That's it. Just breathe." A figure blurs in his vision and he flinches, pressing backwards against the couch, breaths picking up again.

"-just me. I'm not gonna hurt you." The figure raises his hands, crouching down next to the couch to meet the soldier's eyes.  _Steve._ It's Steve, blonde hair and blue eyes- _I knew him-_ and he's speaking, voice low and soothing- "-breathe. With me. In....out....good. Just like that. You're okay. It's just me, and Sam's right here. We're in our apartment. You're safe."

The soldier's breaths slow into ragged inhales, gaze still locked with Steve's, blue eyes familiar and tinged with worry. He matches his breaths to Steve's, body trembling as the adrenaline washes away. He slumps slightly, breathing deeply as awareness fully returns and he looks around. He's in the apartment on the couch, Steve crouched down in front of him and Sam standing back a little ways behind Steve. There is no table, no whirring over his head. The apartment is quiet and still.

"You with me?" Steve questions.

The soldier's gaze flicks back to him. "Yes. How-?" He trails off, anxiety building again.

"How did you get here?"

The soldier nods.

"Well, you kinda checked out after the scan, but we got you to come back down here. You were...responsive, following directions, but I guess you weren't really there if you don't remember. We didn't touch you or do anything. You've been here for about an hour."

The soldier files this information away, anxiety lessening.  

"I'm sorry," Steve says. "We should've realized the scan would be scary for you."

The soldier is not sure why he's apologizing. They wanted the scan, and the soldier had malfunctioned. The rapid breathing and pulse are an aberration he has not experienced before. He is malfunctioning. He will be corrected.

"Sorry," the soldier says.

Steve's brow furrows. "For what?"

"I am...malfunctioning."

Steve's jaw tightens and his eyes go hard. He takes a breath. "That's not...you're not malfunctioning. You're afraid."

"You're having a fairly normal reaction to trauma," Sam adds carefully. "You're allowed to feel. If something makes you scared or upset, you don't have to just keep going or ignore it. Tell us, or say stop. Understand? You can say no."

He can say no? No, he doesn't understand. But does Sam want him to say no? He studies Sam, trying to read the answer in his face.

"No?" he says hesitantly, bracing for Sam's reaction.

Sam just nods. "Okay. What don't you understand?"

He blinks, thrown. "I....don't know. I don't...it's not...up to me." _You're going to let anyone touch you however they want and you're not going to do a damn thing because it's not up to you. You have no control._

"It  _is_ up to you now, man," Sam says. "You have control."

He shakes his head. "No. No-I don't, I don't-"

_...and you're not allowed to react ever again. Your body belongs to us. We can do whatever the fuck we want with it._   _You got that through your head? You don't have rights, or wants, or anything. You don't even have feelings. You're nothing but a machine._   _You're going to let anyone touch you however they want and you're not going to do a damn thing because it's not up to you. You have no control._  

His fist clenches as he recites. "I am not allowed to react. My body belongs to Hydra. They can do whatever the fuck they want with it. I don't have rights or wants. I don't have feelings. I'm a machine. I'm going to let anyone touch me however they want and I'm not going to do a damn thing because it's not up to me. I have no control."

There's a moment of stunned silence as he focuses on getting his breathing back under control, forcing himself into still blankness.

"You-who the-who the  _hell_ told you that?" Steve growls, standing up. The soldier barely contains his flinch, looking down.

"Rumlow."

"I'm going to kill him. I'm going to  _fucking_ kill him-"

"Steve." Sam sets a hand on his arm, looking shaken. "Not now, man." He turns to the soldier, taking a deep breath. "Okay. That was...a lot. A lot of fucked-up stuff. None of that is true, okay? Hydra lied to you. Rumlow lied to you. You're a person. Your body belongs to you and no one else. You have the right to say no to things. You have control now. We're not gonna do anything you don't want, or touch you without your express consent. No one's going to do anything to you you don't want  _ever_ again, okay? Ever."

The soldier looks away, confusion and fear warring within him. Rumlow's words are ingrained deeply, incontrovertible, and Sam's words cannot wash them away. He can't believe Sam. He  _can't._ It's too much.

The elevator door dings open and they all turn, Tony stepping through. He looks pale and slightly shaken, staring at the soldier with something close to horror.

Steve steps forward. "Tony?" 

Tony shakes himself. "I need to talk to you."

Steve frowns, glancing at the soldier before following Tony into the kitchen with Sam close behind, their murmured voices just barely audible to the soldier though he thinks they don't intend him to hear.

"What is it?"

"Just...I watched some of the tapes, on the hard drive. I didn't know...most of them are just him being unfrozen and doing a mission, then being re-frozen. Pretty tame. But others....I had no idea."

"What?"

"There's this...room, they keep taking him into. And there's no security footage, no sound, nothing. No idea what happens in there, but when he comes out...sometimes he's bleeding, or bruised, once he had no fingernails, oh, one time his legs were broken, always barely conscious, and he's just...dead behind the eyes. And the scars..." Tony clears his throat. "There was one time, looks like a mission didn't go well. He was-he was burned, his whole right side, just fried to a crisp, and the guy-Rumlow, was it? wouldn't let them give him medical attention. Said he need to 'learn a lesson.' Dragged him into that room and told everyone else to leave. When he came out...even the techs weren't happy. Talked about Rumlow giving them a bad feeling. They had to-they had to pick out the pieces of Barnes' uniform that were melted to his flesh before they could let him heal. No anesthetic, nothing. Barnes didn't even flinch, just had this dead stare. And the worst is...he remembered you, Rogers. After the fight on the causeway. So they....they wiped it. Put 1200 volts of electricity into his head, longer than they'd ever done before. They were fucking worried they'd turned him into a vegetable, but luckily for them he was fine, relatively speaking. And then to top it all off, even though he didn't have any fucking memories, Rumlow dragged him to the room again. I don't understand why, but Pierce said something about a connection and destroying it. I just...I've only gone through a small amount of the footage. I'm sure there's even more. But I can't. I just...I can't. I didn't know, before. I had no idea."

There's a moment of silence. "Yeah," Steve says roughly. "Neither did we. The room....we went to the base. It looked like a- a torture room."

"Yeah, I worked that out, Rogers. But there's only the feed from the vault, so we have no idea what actually happened. And a lot of stuff doesn't make sense. I'm hoping the techs Hill has downstairs will tell us more."

"Oh yeah. God, I almost forgot about them."

"Well, it's been a day. Banner says he had some sort of episode when he got a scan?"

"Panicked, and then dissociated," Sam says. "Came back only a little while ago and panicked again. We're still trying to talk to him. It's....not going well."

"He violent?"

"No. Opposite. Thinks he has no...autonomy, anything. Says he's supposed to let people do whatever they want to him. It's..."

"Horrifying."

"Yeah."

"Well, speaking of the scans, they're done. And I think you...I don't  _want_ you to see the tapes, but you'll probably demand to anyway so I might as well show you now. Come up to my lab, see some of the tape highlights, have Banner tell you about the scans, and then go interrogate those techs."

"I don't want to leave Bucky alone..." Steve says.

"You won't. Wilson, you can stay here, right? You said Barnes isn't violent, and you seem like the steady type. I'm sure it'll be fine. Jarvis will keep an eye on everything."

"Alright. I do need to know," Steve sighs. "We're in the dark right now, and we don't know how to help him."

"I'm not sure anyone does. I mean, I thought I had some trauma but...this takes the cake. That's not even counting the fifty years before when he was with the Russians. I think that's on the VHS tape, but I haven't gotten there yet."

"You don't have to do this. If it's too hard-"

"I know I said I can't, but I take that back. If it'll help Barnes, I'll sit through the whole thing. He used to be my childhood hero, you know?"

"Not me?"

There's a chuckle. "Fuck you, Rogers. I'm not admitting that you were my hero. Besides, hearing so much about you from dear old dad kinda turned me off. Sorry. But no, I just...I always liked Barnes. Dad talked about him, but it wasn't the same hero-worship as you. It was more like they'd been friends. Said Barnes was the only one who'd listen to him spout off about science, and was actually interested. I don't know. Just...growing up with this image of Barnes, and then seeing him just be..."

"Yeah."

"I guess it's worse for you. You actually knew him, before."

There's a moment of silence. Tony clears his throat.

"Well, anyway, this is getting too touchy-feely for me. I'll meet you up in the lab."

"Thanks, Tony."

There's footsteps and Tony strides across the room, getting into the elevator without looking back. Steve and Sam step back into view, coming back to stand in front of the soldier.

"I've got to take care of some stuff," Steve says shortly. "Sam's going to stay here with you. I'll be back later."

The soldier doesn't reply and Steve's eyes tighten before he turns to leave, Sam settling onto the other end of the couch across from the soldier. The elevator dings and the soldier feels Steve leave, tracks his presence upwards until it stops a few floors above them before returning his attention to Sam. 

"So," Sam starts, watching the soldier carefully, "I think we need to talk some more about what you said. Cause that's some serious shit. But it sounds like you were just repeating something you've been told. Let me ask you, do you actually believe all that?"

The soldier looks down, anxiety climbing. He  _has_ to, he can't question, he can't, it is burned into him with pain and choked-off screams, with hot breath in his ear and hands on his body, it has settled deep into his bones, has consumed him, but Sam is telling him this is  _wrong_ and he doesn't know-he doesn't know what Sam wants, he thinks he wants him to say no but that is wrong, he  _does_ believe this, he thinks, he  _knows_ this, he is not human,  _he deserves this-_

"Barnes. No one's gonna hurt you, no matter what you answer. I just want to know."

That is a lie. They always hurt him. He doesn't know what Sam wants him to say, what the right answer is.

"I don't know. I don't-I don't know, please-"

Sam raises his hands. "Okay. That's okay. You're not sure if you believe it?"

"I'm sorry, I don't-I don't know what you want, I don't-"

Sam freezes before leaning forward slightly, eyes narrowing. "Wait, have you been answering based on what you think  _I_ want?" he asks incredulously. 

The soldier's breath hitches and Sam's face goes slack with horror. 

"Oh my god, for how long? Have you been doing that this whole time?"

The soldier doesn't know how to respond. "Yes?"

Sam brings a hand to his mouth, looking like he's been struck. "So when I asked you if something was okay, if you understood, you just....said what you thought I wanted?" He looks at the soldier. "Be honest. I want you to tell me the truth, not what you think I want to hear."

The soldier hunches in on himself. "Yes."

"Oh god." Sam slumps back against the couch, drawing a hand over his face. "I fucked up. We fucked up." He takes a couple deep breaths before composing himself and sitting up again, meeting the soldier's eyes. "Okay, so this is...bad, but at least we know now instead of later. Listen, you can't do that anymore. I want you to be completely honest. Don't worry about what I want or what I'm thinking, or Steve for that matter. There are no wrong answers. Can you do that?"

"Yes." It is a direct order. Be completely honest. He can follow it. 

Sam narrows his eyes at him before nodding. "Okay, I believe you. So, can we go back to my earlier question-do you believe all that?"

The soldier hunches. "Yes," he says quietly.

Sam nods. "Okay. We can work on it. I know it's gonna be hard to start believing that you're a person again. You don't have to do it right now, or even anytime soon. As long as you know that what they told you was a lie, and that we aren't going to do anything you don't want. You're allowed to say no. You start to feel like you did after the scanner, you just say 'stop.' Think you can do that?"

"Yes." Again, it is a direct order. When he starts to malfunction, he says stop. He can do this. 

Sam looks relieved. "Good."

The soldier's head pounds and he's suddenly exhausted, the events of the day catching up to him. He feels Sam's eyes on him and then Sam is getting up, pulling a blanket off the back of the couch and setting it next to the soldier.

"I'm gonna give you some time to yourself. Take a nap if you want, you look pretty tired. I'll be somewhere in the apartment. Alright?"

"Yes."

Sam gives him a small smile and the retreats to his bedroom, the soldier tentatively fingering the soft blanket he'd left on the couch. Slowly, he unfolds it and wraps it around himself, blinking at the sensation. He feels...safe, somehow, and he wraps it tighter around himself and slumps sideways onto the couch, uncaring that the blanket hampers movement. If something attacks he is compromised, but Tony had said the apartment was safe and Sam is here, and he can sense Steve a few floors above him. He is allowed to sleep.

He closes his eyes, burrowing deeper into the blanket as a soft sigh escapes, warm and comfortable as he drifts off to sleep.

***

There are murmured voices, talking indistinctly.

"-techs...what Rumlow did.....I can't.... _fucking_ kill him-"

"-I know, that's...no idea...."

"-and...tapes......scans show-"

"-progress....couple weeks-"

"-can't believe-"

"-you okay?....a lot-"

"-don't know-"

The voices fade away as the soldier sinks back into sleep.

***

_-There's gunfire and screams, explosions sending shrapnel spinning in all directions._ _"Bucky, behind you!-"_

_-An arm slings around his shoulders, warm weight against his side. "Come on, Buck-"_

_"-Hey Sarge!-"_

_-The explosion sends him flying through the air, the scent of burning flesh meeting his nose-_

_-A knife slashes across his throat, brown eyes steely and determined, grey hair spilling over the woman's shoulders-_

_"-James?-"_

_-His wrists strain against the cuffs, fabric wrapped around his eyes and legs trembling beneath him, breaths harsh in the silence-_

_-Hands shake him, a face swimming in his vision. "It's me. It's Steve-"_

_"-Yasha!-"_

_-Metal clamps over his face and the world whites out in pain-_

_-A boot connects with his ribs as he curls on the hard floor-_

_-A smaller Steve, face set in defiance-_

_"-Bucky, Bucky! Come on, there are men laying down their lives-"_

_"-Bucky! No!-"_

_-He is falling through the air, Steve's form growing smaller and smaller-_

He jerks awake, breathing heavily. The room is dark and he's still wrapped in the blanket, laying on his right side on the couch. His breaths slow and deepen as the dreams fade, the blanket a comforting restriction around him and soft against his skin. He is....safe. Whatever that means.

He levers himself up, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders as he pads across the soft carpet, stopping in front of the large floor-to-ceiling windows that look out into the city. The lights twinkle in the darkness, and he feels an ache in his chest as he stares out at the skyline, something familiar and soothing about it. It feels like home, though he doesn't know why, or what that means. He sinks to the ground in front of the window, sitting crosslegged with blanket still wrapped around him as he stares out, letting calmness wash over him. It is not the calmness of blank stillness but something like...peace. 

He sits for hours in the darkness until the faintest light starts to appear over the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange. It's...beautiful, he thinks, and he watches enraptured as the sun peeks through the buildings and washes everything in warm light, the soldier blinking as sunbeams hit his face and warm his skin.

Footsteps sound and he senses Steve come up behind him, carefully sitting down on the soldier's right about a foot away.

"Hey Buck," he says softly. 

The soldier feels himself lean towards him instinctively, feels himself shift to the right until their shoulders brush. Steve jumps slightly, carefully not looking at the soldier though the soldier hears his heart skip, hears him hold his breath. He seems to be waiting for the soldier to make the first move, and he is not discouraging the contact. The soldier knows this, too, has faint memories of his arm pressed against Steve's. It seems this was an acceptable form of contact between Steve and Barnes.

The soldier leans to the right again, shoulder pressing to Steve's, and then his head is following suit without conscious decision, coming to rest on Steve's shoulder as the soldier inhales Steve's scent and then exhales, relaxing. Steve stays perfectly still beneath him, but his heart is fluttering rapidly and the soldier feels Steve's breath hitch under him in a small sob before he exhales shakily, shoulder loosening under the soldier's head. They watch the sun rise that way, only their quiet breaths breaking the silence.

Sam walks in a while later, footsteps stopping at the end of the hallway.

"This isn't adorable, get a handle on yourself, Wilson," the soldier hears him mutter. "Brainwashed assassin who tried to kill me wrapped in a blanket and cuddling with Captain America. No, not adorable at all." The footsteps start again, Sam coming to stand next to Steve. The soldier raises his head off of Steve's shoulder, feeling his neck protest from the awkward position it's been in.

"How long you been awake?" Sam asks.

"Approximately four hours."

"Wow. You went to sleep at about three o'clock in the afternoon yesterday. That's like, eleven hours of sleep. You must have needed it."

"Well, your brain is healing," Steve notes. "Sleep is the best way to let your brain heal."

Sam nods. "Yeah, we looked at the brain scans. You've got some damage, but Dr. Banner thinks it will heal on its own. You keep sleeping and doing your vampire thing and he thinks you should be back to 100% in a few months judging by your rate of recovery that, uh, Hydra noted."

"I will...have all of his memories?" the soldier questions.

Steve turns to look at him, frowning. "You mean your memories?"

"No. Barnes. Before."

Steve looks pained. "Buck, do you-do you think you and...Bucky are different people?"

The soldier raises an eyebrow slightly. "Yes. Barnes was human. He died. Hydra created me. I'm a vampire."

Steve's expression clears. "No-no, Bucky. You were a vampire before Hydra. Zola made you into one, yes, but you were still  _you._ It was during the war. He experimented on you when you were captured, but I rescued you. You were a vampire for over a year before you...before you fell."

The soldier blinks, thrown. "What?"

"You didn't know that?"

He shakes his head, mouth opening and closing helplessly. "I-I thought-" It's a revelation, one that turns everything upside down. He was a vampire  _before?_ Hydra didn't create him? He is-he is Barnes? That means he is....a  _person._ "But-" he sputters. "But...I-" He looks at Steve incredulously. " _I'm_ Bucky?"

Steve nods with a pained smile. "Yes. You're Bucky. You're  _you."_

The soldier stares, stunned. "I was a vampire...before?"

"Yes. It didn't change anything."

The soldier's breathing quickens. "But...but...I-that, that means, I-no, but-" Panic claws at him, breathing approaching hyperventilation as his heart rate increases, confusion and denial raging inside him. "No-I, I can't, that's-"

"Breathe. It's okay. I know I kinda sprung that on you, pal. Just breathe with me, alright. In...out." The soldier tries to slow his erratic breathing, gasping and trembling as he follows Steve's instructions. "Good. In....out. Just like that."

The soldier sucks in lungfuls of air, breathing and heart rate finally slowing as the panic abates.

"That's better," Steve says. "Again, I know I sprung this on you. I had no idea you didn't know."

"I'm Bucky?" the soldier repeats, voice breathy and hoarse.

Steve nods. "Yes."

The soldier frowns. "But I'm...not. I'm not a...person."

Steve's expression goes pained again. "You  _are_ a person. Hydra just told you that you weren't. But you are."

The soldier's head pounds and it's too much, he can't, it's too much and he remembers, there's something he's supposed to say, he's supposed to tell them when he's malfunctioning-

"Stop," he chokes out.

"Okay," Sam says. "Steve, come on." He grabs Steve's arm, tugging him up and away from the soldier and retreating into the kitchen. The soldier curls in on himself, drawing his knees up and resting his aching forehead on them as he wraps his arms around them, blanket making a safe cocoon around him. He takes shuddering breaths, unable to retreat into blankness, feeling hot tears slip down his face. He  _can't_ be Bucky. He  _can't._

***

Steve and Sam eat breakfast and eventually the soldier uncurls from his ball, back cracking and popping loudly as he straightens and pain flaring through the metal shoulder. He rolls it, trying to work out the stiffness that's cropped up from staying still for so long, before getting to his feet and shuffling to the couch. Steve is on one end, scrolling through a tablet, and the soldier plants himself at the other end, Sam looking up from where he's reading in the armchair. 

"You good?"

The soldier feels his eyebrow raise slightly as he stares at Sam. He said to be honest. "No." 

Surprisingly, Sam's lips twitch. "Right. At least doing better?"

"Yes."

"That's good. You did real good saying stop. That was perfect."

Something inside the soldier settles at the praise. Sam goes back to reading and Steve grabs a sketchbook from the coffee table, flipping to a page and starting to draw. The soldier watches, intrigued, something pressing at the edges of his memory. There's a flash, Steve small and skinny, hunched over a sketchbook, lip caught between his teeth as he sketches, eyes flitting up to ~~the soldier~~   _Bucky_ and then back down, slim hand gripping the pencil and stained with graphite....

The soldier blinks, pain lancing through his head. 

"You...used to draw?" he says hesitantly.

Steve looks up, expression hopeful. "Yeah. You remember?"

"Yes. I don't know. You were...smaller?"

Steve nods, eyes brightening. "Yeah. Before the serum. I was real scrawny."

The soldier chews his lip slightly. "I read about you. In the museum."

Steve sets down his pencil, shifting to face the soldier fully. "You said that before. You went to the Smithsonian?"

"Yes."

"So you know our basic history. That's good I guess."

The soldier frowns. "But they didn't say he...I..he-" He pauses, confused. "They didn't say he was a vampire."

Steve shakes his head. "They didn't know. No one knew, besides me and Peggy."

"Peggy..." The woman in the films. The soldier squints, hand moving to his throat unconsciously. Steve's expression suddenly tightens. The soldier removes his hand. "What?"

"You, uh, you don't remember?"

"Remember what?"

"I saw it in the tapes. They sent you to kill Peggy. I guess it...didn't go so well. She gave you that scar somehow. You apparently recognized her, and she recognized you. Called you James. You fought back, against Hydra, and, well...it didn't end well." Steve swallows.

"Oh." The soldier knows what that means. "She's...alive?"

"Yeah." Steve gives a pained grimace. "She's old now though. She has Alzheimers, which means she forgets things a lot."

"Like me?"

Steve smiles sadly. "Not quite. You have amnesia. You just lost all your old memories, but she loses new ones, too. She sometimes knows where she is, but other times she thinks it sometime else, or doesn't remember that I'm alive. It varies from day to day."

It sounds...sad. Steve looks sad. This is...unacceptable.

"Sorry," the soldier says.

Steve's expression softens but stays sad. "Thanks, Buck. I guess it is what it is." He clears his throat. "So, what else did you learn from the exhibit?"

"We were...friends, before?"

"Yeah." Steve smiles. "We met when I was five. You were six. Some kids were beating me up and you stepped in to help. From then on we were pretty much inseparable."

The soldier is overcome by a desire to know more, to learn as much information as he can about who Bucky was. 

"Can you..." he asks hesitantly.

"Can I what?"

"Talk? About..."

Steve's face brightens. "You want to hear some stories?"

"Yes."

Steve looks positively overjoyed. He settles more comfortably on the couch, putting the sketchbook on the coffee table. Even Sam puts down his book and looks interested.

"So," Steve says, "I'll start at the beginning. I was five years old and some kids were tryin to steal my lunch money..." 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Discussion of past sexual assault

Steve talks until it's time for lunch, the soldier filing away every small piece of information even though his head starts to ache as Steve talks. The stories are mostly of them as kids, and mostly feature Steve getting beat up and Bucky saving him. It's a common theme, and the soldier feels a faint horror at how often Steve got beat up in addition to the numerous health problems he details offhand. The soldier thinks he understands why Bucky was so protective. Steve should've been locked away in a tower like this one. It's a miracle he's still alive.

Sam leaves after lunch to go talk to Tony, who he says is making him new wings. "Cause you destroyed mine, Barnes, thanks for that," he says, but his voice carries no condemnation. The soldier returns to the couch, head pounding and exhaustion dragging at his limbs. He wraps himself in the blanket again and flops down, falling asleep in minutes.

_"-I had him on the ropes," Steve says, wiping the blood from his mouth._

_"I know you did." Bucky sighs, bringing up a hand to Steve's chin to tilt his face, inspecting the damage. "Jesus Christ, kid, what was it this time?"_

_Steve bats Bucky's hand away, scowling. "Doesn't matter."_

_"Why don't I believe you?"_

_"Buck-"_

_-Bucky's hand rubs soothing circles onto Steve's back as he wheezes, shaking like a leaf._

_"With me," Bucky says. "In....out....in.....out, like that. Come on, pal. Breathe-"_

_"-Oh god." Steve's face swims in his vision, hand warm on his shoulder. " _Bucky-"__

_-A shell explodes next to him, the screams of men ringing in his ears as sand showers over him. Gunfire sounds, relentless, men falling around them as they charge up the beach, bullets pinging off Steve's shield-_

_-The men are laughing, cigarette smoke filling the air and fire crackling softly. The laughter rings in his ears, distorts, and suddenly their faces twist into cruel smirks, advancing on him, hands reaching for him-_

_-There are hands on him, holding him down, face pressed to something soft and hands fisted limply in sheets-_

_"-Shhh," Steve says and smirks, eyes glinting, before straightening up and wrapping his hand around Bucky's throat as he rolls his hips-_

_"-Bucky," Steve says, but his face is all wrong, warping and twisting, blonde hair turning dark and a sneer curling his lips, eyes glittering with malice-_

The soldier jerks awake, gasping. Footsteps sound and Steve crouches down next to the couch, face looming in the soldier's vision.

"Bucky."

The soldier panics, throwing himself off the couch, tripping and falling because of the blanket. He wrenches it away, stumbling backwards as he stares at Steve, breaths coming in gasps.

"Stop," he chokes out. "Stop, stop, stop stop stop-"

His back hits the wall and he slides down, curling into the corner as he presses his hands to his head.

"Stop stop stop stop stop-"

He takes a shuddering breath and everything stops.

***

He blinks, awareness trickling in but everything still numb and muted. He raises his head, looking around. Murmured voices stop abruptly and two figures approach, one crouching down a little ways in front of him. His vision clears and he recognizes Steve, face worried, and his breath hitches as his limbs lock up in terror.

"Buck?" Steve questions. "Are you with me?" He shifts and the soldier flinches, whole body jerking back against the wall as his breaths pick up and he trembles, eyes wide and fixed on Steve with terror. Steve raises his hands slowly and the soldier flinches again, shaking, breaths coming in harsh pants. Steve looks pained. "I'm not going to hurt you," he says. "You're safe."

That is-that is a lie, they always hurt him, Steve hurt him, he lied, he is-he is just like Rumlow, he hurt him, he  _remembers,_ everything is a lie, it won't stop, it never stops-

The metal arm whirs, plates shifting in response to the soldier's distress. He's still shaking, pressed back against the wall and breathing in shuddering gasps.

"Bucky," Steve tries again, and the soldier flinches, squeezing his eyes shut and turning his head to the side, a choked sound escaping.

"Steve," Sam's voice warns and the soldier's eyes open, gaze flicking up to Sam.  _Sam._ Sam does not hurt him, Sam tells him he can say  _stop_ and stops when the soldier says it, Sam is steady and calm and tells the soldier he  _did real good,_ and the soldier's breathing slows slightly as he looks at Sam.

"Hi," Sam says, giving him a small smile. "Hey there. It's just us. No one's gonna hurt you. You had a nightmare and then went away for a while. Everything's okay."

The soldier wants to believe him. Sam said no one is ever going to do anything to him ever again. Sam will protect him. He will make sure the soldier is functional. The soldier focuses on him, letting his breaths even out as everything goes numb around the edges.

"Good. You're doing great," Sam says, and the soldier relaxes further, sinking into blankness.

"Buck-"

The soldier slams back against the wall, panicking, eyes landing on Steve wildly as he gasps for breath.

Sam grabs Steve's shoulder. "Steve. I'm sorry, but...I think it's you. You gotta-you gotta go. I'll handle this."

Steve looks crushed. He gets up, the soldier tracking the movement as he shudders with fear, breaths so shallow black spots start to crowd his vision. Steve's footsteps retreat and then Sam is sinking to the ground in front of him, posture open and relaxed and legs crossed.

"Alright, Steve's leaving. It's just you and me. Let's take some deep breaths together. Ready, in....out." The soldier matches his breaths to Sam's, breathing deeply. "Good. Again. In....out."

The soldier feels the tension drain out of him as he keeps taking deep breaths, feeling Steve leave the apartment. Safe. He's safe.

"Alright Barnes, you back with me?" Sam asks.

"Yes," the soldier rasps.

"You remember what happened, how you got here?"

"Yes."

"Good. That makes things easier. Now, you wanna talk about why Steve is freaking you out?"

The soldier looks away, a shudder going through him. "I am malfunctioning."

Sam sighs. "You're  _scared._ Of Steve. Why?"

The soldier hunches slightly, still not meeting Sam's eyes but compelled by orders to tell the truth. "He hurt me."

"He-oh." Sam swallows. "On the Helicarrier. Right, he broke your arm. Listen, he was just trying to prevent Hydra from doing something really bad. He didn't want to fight you. He feels really bad about it."

The soldier shakes his head. "No. Before."

"Before....like, before Hydra?"

"Yes."

"I'm sure there was context. Steve would never hurt you if he didn't have to. Were you...fighting? Or maybe you were wounded and he had to patch you up, but it hurt?"

_If you don't I will have to hurt you, and I don't want to do that.... I'm the good guy here. Don't make me have to hurt you to ensure you do your part._ That's what they always say. They never want to hurt him, but they do.

"No," he says.

"Alright, you're gonna have to help me out here. I can't set things straight if I don't know what's bothering you."

The soldier shifts.  _Not a word._ _Shhh._ "I'm not-I can't, I'm not allowed, I can't-"

"You're...not allowed to talk about it? Steve told you that?" Sam asks incredulously.

"No. Yes. I don't know. Rumlow."

"What? I thought we were talking about Steve." Sam scrubs a hand over his face. "I'm sorry. I don't know what you're trying to say. What did Steve specifically do to you?"

The soldier brings a hand up to his throat, unable to say it. Sam frowns.

"Steve...choked you?"

"Yes. And-" he cuts himself off, biting down hard on his tongue.

"And what?"

The soldier shakes his head.  _Shhh. Not a word._ He's not allowed.

"Are you sure this was before?"

"Yes."

"Okayyy." Sam looks to be thinking this over. "And what does this have to do with Rumlow-" He cuts off suddenly, eyes going wide. "Oh. Oh no," he murmurs. "Tell me that's not what I'm thinking..." He takes a deep breath. "Okay, I may be wrong, but let me just ask this. Did you and Steve have a....sexual relationship?"

The soldier flinches. Sam exhales sharply.

"Oh. Wow. Okay. Um, right. Listen, what happened between you and Steve was totally different than what Rumlow did to you. I mean, I don't know Steve that well, but I know he'd never do that. You guys must've been....anyway, I'm sure that was consensual. You both wanted it. And you were....yourself. With Rumlow you were a prisoner. You had no control. You couldn't say no. Does that-does that make sense?"

The soldier's fist clenches. "Yes, but-but it was the same," he says helplessly. He raises a hand to his throat again before dropping it.

"Oh. Right. The, uh, choking." Sam takes another breath. "Um, so sometimes people, uh, do things, in bed, like that, but it's consensual. It's about...trust, not power. Rumlow wanted to hurt you. Steve wanted to make you feel good. He would have stopped immediately if you didn't like it. They were very different situations, and you were in very different mindsets. Do you understand?"

The soldier nods slowly, thinking this over. Now that he is calmer and the dream faded, it makes sense. Steve has always been gentle and kind, and he hasn't tried to hurt the soldier. He feels  _safe,_ unlike Rumlow, and he tells the soldier that he is a person and tells him stories about them. They were friends, but they were more than that. Steve's presence pulses in his chest, warm and comforting. But the dream still lingers, of Steve's hand around his throat and his voice telling him to be quiet. It is...too much like Rumlow. Rumlow could do whatever he wanted to the soldier, but....Bucky was a person, and he has no memories besides the one of Steve, no memories to tell him if Bucky wanted it. The soldier doesn't know. It's too confusing, and the memories of Steve and Rumlow blur and meld together until he can't tell them apart.

"I can't-" he starts. "I can't....tell them apart. I-they...blur, together, I can't... _remember,_ I can't-"

"That's okay," Sam says. "They'll come back. I know it must be confusing. This is...I never expected this. It complicates everything. Do you need Steve to stay away for a while?"

It's not up to him, he can't choose, he doesn't have needs or wants-

"Let me rephrase, cause I can tell you're working yourself up to a freak-out. Is Steve being here going to make you afraid? Or...'malfunctioning,' as you like to call it?"

The soldier considers. "I don't know." The warmth in his chest tugs him towards Steve, but the memories in his mind push him away. He quails at the thought of seeing him, yet something in him doesn't want to let Steve out of his sight.

"That's not very reassuring," Sam says. "I don't want to let him back in here if it's gonna traumatize you."

The soldier takes a breath. "I...no. He can...be here. But..." He looks up at Sam. "You...?"

Sam squints as he tries to parse the soldier's meaning. "You want me to stay?"

"Yes." He blinks, realizing he's said he  _wants_ something, but Sam replies before he can think about it.

"Okay. No problem. I won't leave you alone with him. You start feeling uncomfortable, remember, say 'stop' and I'll chuck Steve right out again, no matter what."

The soldier feels something loosen inside him, like relief. He nods. 

"Alright, I'm gonna text him to come back, and I'm gonna have a quick talk with him before I let him see you. You want to get out of this corner?"

The soldier stands up, feeling the stiffness in his body. He's drained, the adrenaline and terror having fled and leaving him slightly numb. He makes his way to the couch, scooping up the blanket again and draping it over his shoulders as he curls into the corner, head resting against the back. Sam walks past, holding up his phone.

"Okay, he's on his way. We'll have a chat in the kitchen and then see where you're at. We'll also probably eat some food at some point. It's getting late."

Sure enough the light through the windows is fading, sun low in the sky. The elevator door dings and the soldier senses Steve step in, moving towards the kitchen to meet Sam. Their murmured voices just reach the soldier's ears, and he thinks he's not supposed to hear but they don't seem to know how enhanced his senses are.

"Hey."

"Hey man."

"So, is everything...okay now?"

There's a slight chuckle from Sam. "Uh, no, not really. I'm out of my depth here, Steve. Fuck."

"What is it?"

"Well, first of all, I can't believe I'm asking this. Were you and Barnes...together?"

There's a choking sound. "What? Um, why-why do you ask?"

"So you were."

A pause. "Yeah. Are you...okay with that?"

"Shit, of course, Steve. I'm not a homophobe. But believe me, finding out that Captain America is gay is a real life-changer. I mean, Captain America and Bucky Barnes. Together. Like, holy shit."

"I'm technically bisexual."

"Oh. Sorry. But okay, point. I'll freak out about that later. So, um, you guys had a sexual relationship."

"....yes."

"This is extremely awkward, but I have to make sure I get everything straight. Barnes said you...choked him?"

"Oh. Um, yeah, we, could, uh, get rough. In bed. Why..?"

"Right. Well, I'm just gonna say this. Right now, to Barnes, 'rough in bed' means rape."

There's a thump and the creak of a chair.

"Oh god."

"Yeah."

"He doesn't think-I...?"

"He doesn't know the difference, Steve."

"Oh god."

"I think he...understands now, though. The problem is he doesn't have a lot of memories, and the ones he does are probably distorted and unclear, because memories are mutable. He said the memories of you and...Rumlow blurred together, and that he couldn't tell them apart. Said he couldn't remember."

"But he...knows? I'd never do that.  _Never."_

"I know, Steve. I told him that, even before asking you. I think he gets it, but there's a difference between knowing something and making yourself believe it. That memory is now associated with bad things, and he's going to instinctively be afraid of you. He can't help it. He logically knows he wanted it, but right now all he sees is the exact same thing that was done to him that was horrible, and that he definitely didn't want. All he sees is you hurting him. That's not something you can just forget."

"What am I supposed to do?"

"You're going to give him space, and you're going to respect his boundaries. Don't touch him, don't even talk to him if he doesn't initiate it. And if he says 'stop,' you leave. Immediately. No questions asked. Honestly, you should have said something about your relationship sooner. That complicates everything. Now there's expectation, and history, and just a shit-load of stuff that I'm not qualified to deal with." There's a sigh. "I know I said he was the kind you stop, but goddamnit, no, he's the kind you save. And I'm going to do it even if that means you have to leave."

"You think I should leave?"

"I hate to say it, but yes. At least for a little while, till he gets his head on straight. You guys' history makes everything confusing and overwhelming for him, not to mention this latest shit-storm. Me? I'm a safe person for him and I have no expectations. Everything's simple. I don't hurt him, he starts to trust me. I'm exactly what he needs right now. He said he was okay with seeing you, but it wasn't a very emphatic 'yes,' more like a 'maybe.' I let it go, but to be honest now I'm rethinking that. I'll respect his decision for now and let you see him, but as soon as he says 'stop,' because I'm pretty sure he will, then I'm putting my foot down and saying you need to leave. For a while. Go to Europe, help Fury, whatever. Put some distance between you."

There's a moment of silence. "Okay," Steve croaks. "If it-if it helps him, then I'll leave. I don't want him to look at me and see....and see..."

"I get it. It's not your fault, Steve. Listen, let me handle this. I can play therapist to Barnes for a while, it's fine."

"I can't thank you enough for everything you've done, Sam. You didn't have to do this."

"Hey, when Captain America needs your help....I'm just reckless enough to try and rehabilitate the brainwashed vampire assassin who tried to kill me, what can I say?"

Steve laughs unexpectedly. "Yeah, I think you might give me a run for my money in the reckless department. I mean, you did let me into your house after only meeting me twice."

"Hey, you're Captain America! I was pretty sure I could trust you."

"You brought a knife to a gun fight."

"And I kicked ass."

"You literally dodged gunfire and rockets while  _flying."_

"I kicked ass."

Steve chuckles. "Yeah. Yeah you did. I'm real lucky to have met you, Sam."

"Yeah you are. Come on, man, bring it in." There's the sound of hands slapping backs and cleared throats. "Okay, so I guess we're decided. You're leaving."

"Yeah. I think this is the best decision. For everyone. I'll contact Fury, see about taking out Hydra bases. That'll make me feel better, anyway. I don't want them touching Bucky ever again. I want them wiped off the earth."

"I hear you. Fucking Nazis. So, he says 'stop,' you leave and crash on one of the other floors, I'll bring you your stuff in the morning and you head out."

"Sounds like a plan. How long?"

"However long it takes. Could be a week, could be a month. It's up to Barnes."

"Yeah. Are you okay with...feeding him?"

"Oh. Right. Well, I guess I'll have to be, unless I want to steal blood from a hospital. Here I go, being reckless again. Letting a vampire assassin drink my blood. My mom would be screaming bloody murder if she knew."

"He won't kill you. He doesn't need that much. And actually, uh, it doesn't even hurt. We always put it down to 'magic vampire powers.'"

" _Magic vampire powers?"_

"I don't know, we were flying blind. But it doesn't hurt, and if he licks it it makes it heal. He once licked his hand and stuck it to Monty's bullet wound. Stopped bleeding immediately, closed up in a week."

"Huh. Magic vampire powers. I guess we'll see."

"Just...take care of him. I can't lose him again."

"You have my word. Don't you die, either. Barnes needs you."

Steve takes a deep breath and then footsteps approach, the soldier lifting his head off the couch to see Steve appear. He looks worried, and sad, nothing like the twisted face in his dreams with glittering eyes and a cruel smirk. Steve stops a fair distance away from the couch, just watching the soldier, Sam coming up next to him. There's a twinge of anxiety at seeing him, the memories of his hand wrapped around his throat still fresh, but the soldier is able to push it down slightly.

"You're leaving," he says.

Steve blinks. "Yes," he replies hesitantly. "Sam thinks it's for the best. How did you know?"

"I heard you."

Steve's eyes widen slightly. "You could hear us, in the kitchen?"

"Yes."

"Everything? And...other conversations, before?"

"Yes."

Steve winces. "Oh. I didn't know you could hear that well. Sorry."

The soldier doesn't respond, still watching Steve warily. He knows Steve won't talk to him unless he initiates it. He looks at Steve then purposefully flicks his gaze to the couch. Steve hesitates.

"You want me to sit down?"

The soldier stares at him, then repeats the motion, unable to say he  _wants_ it. Steve takes a tentative step forward, then another, until he can sit gingerly on the other end of the couch, across from the soldier. The soldier's heart rate kicks up at the proximity but he swallows down the fear, focusing on keeping his breathing even. 

"Talk about....us?" the soldier asks. 

Steve nods. "Okay. Um, well, we were kinda idiots. I liked you for years but I didn't think you felt that way about me. Apparently you were thinking the same thing. But I was fifteen, and we were sitting on the fire escape of me and my Ma's place. She was at work, so we were all alone, and we're drinking a bottle of whisky you snuck from your house. You're a little tipsy, and we're sitting real close, and all of a sudden you just lean in and kiss me. Pulled back real quick and just started apologizing and getting all upset so I just grabbed you and planted one on you. Then we started laughing. It was so ridiculous. Both of us must'a been the biggest idiots in all of Brooklyn." Steve smiles softly. "And that was that. Been going steady since then. We did break up a bunch of times, but the longest we ever did was only a week. Once, we broke up for thirty seconds." He chuckles. "We could fight like cats and dogs, but we always came back to each other. I couldn't stay mad at you long. And-" His expression goes tight. "We never hurt each other, physically. Even when we fought. Never. I need you to know that. We were...rough with each other, but it was never meant to hurt. It was just how we were."

The soldier contemplates this, scanning Steve's face for truth. His eyes are wide and blue and honest, earnestness in every line of his face.  _Can't tell a lie to save his life,_ something tells him. He feels something in him loosen. But it's still too much, the memories are too ingrained. Sam is right. He will malfunction if Steve stays. 

He meets Steve's eyes. "Stop," he says quietly. 

Steve nods, giving him a sad smile before getting up and leaving, the elevator doors closing behind him. The soldier curls into the couch, staring ahead blankly as something painful twinges in his chest. Sam sits down on the vacated spot on the couch, expression sympathetic.

"He'll come back?" the soldier questions softly.

"When you're ready."

The soldier draws the blanket tighter around him, falling silent.

***

Sam eats as the soldier stares into space, still on the couch. He can feel Steve still in the building, a few floors below.

"You want to sleep on an actual bed?" Sam questions. "You have a whole room to yourself."

The soldier goes to his room but can't make himself sleep on the bed, panic spiking if he gets within a foot of it. He sleeps on the floor and wakes with a jerk in the middle of the night, dream fading. He moves to the couch, falling asleep again. In the morning Sam passes him and pauses, eyes narrowed.

"You sleep on the couch?"

"Yes."

"Don't like the bed?"

"No."

"Okay." Sam shrugs. "Whatever makes you comfortable." He brings a sheet and another blanket as well as a pillow for the soldier to use, folding them beside the couch. 

The soldier feels when Steve leaves. His hand comes to his chest and he traces his presence out of the tower and away, chest aching and something hollow inside. He was supposed to protect Steve. Instead he malfunctioned, and now Steve could be hurt or killed and the soldier won't be there. He lays on the couch, staring at nothing, giving one-word responses to Sam's questions. In the afternoon he falls asleep, waking with a jerk. Sam is there, and the soldier calms, sinking back into blankness. More memories slot into place in his mind. Some are good, some are not good. The good ones are mostly of Steve.

The evening passes in a haze. Sam tries to engage him but the soldier can only muster up the energy to give short responses. Sam eventually gives up and leaves the soldier alone, reading in the armchair. Night falls and the soldier piles the sheets and blanket on the couch, wrapping himself up, head on the soft pillow. He's asleep in moments.

He wakes up screaming. Sam rushes in, calming him with a steady voice as he tells him to breathe. The soldier calms but drifts away into blankness, blinking back to awareness mid-morning. He spends several more hours just lying on the couch staring into nothing before he falls asleep, waking to the smells of Sam cooking food. He doesn't bother getting up, lying wrapped in blankets, even when Sam crouches down next to the couch with a worried expression.

"Hey, you okay?"

"Fuck off," the soldier says, and then blinks, surprised. Sam's eyes widen and then brighten before he composes himself, standing up and crossing his arms, fixing the soldier with a stern gaze.

"Alright, Barnes, you have not left this couch for two days. You haven't showered or changed since we've been here, and it's been four days. I'm not going to _make_ you get your ass off this couch, but I'm strongly  _suggesting_ you get your ass off this couch." 

The soldier scowls and gets up, walking down the hallway and finding the bathroom. He slams the door, though he's not sure why, only that it makes something pleased spark inside. He turns on the shower and strips, stepping under the warm spray. Instantly he feels more awake, and wonders why he hadn't done this before. Showers are necessary to maintain functionality. He smells of four days worth of accumulated sweat, and he doesn't know how he had stood it with his sensitive nose. He hurriedly grabs the nearest product and liberally douses it over his hair, the scent of citrus filling the air. He works it into his hair, relaxing as his muscles unknot under the warm water, body stiff from being inactive for so long and back muscles aching from bearing the weight of the metal arm. Then he grabs the bar of soap, running it over his body as he traces his scars, the memories of getting each one vivid in his mind and making him shudder as the soap bumps over them, something twisting in his gut as he looks at them. He touches his right wrist with his metal hand, feeling the ridge of scar tissue that wraps around it. All of a sudden he hates it. He wants it gone. He wants all the scars gone. He can't bear to look at them, a faint horror running through him and something thick and heavy in his throat, wetness pricking his eyes. The metal hand clenches into a fist.  _His body is not his own._

He finishes getting clean and shuts off the shower, getting out. He wraps the towel around his waist and wipes the condensation off the mirror, blinking at his own reflection. His hair is wet and tangled, hanging around his face, eyes haunted and dead and stubble covering his cheeks. The scar on his throat- _from Peggy-_ is clearly visible, a white slash marring the pale skin. The soldier shudders away from his reflection, from the ghost of Barnes that haunts him, rifling in the cabinets for a razor. He shaves while looking at his reflection as little as possible, going on muscle memory. When he's done he pads down the hallway to his room, opening the drawers and selecting a new set of clothes. He chooses a long sleeve shirt, pulling the sleeve down over the scars on his wrist, the long sweatpants tapering at the ankle and covering the scars there. Satisfied, he ventures out into the apartment, finding Sam in the armchair. Sam looks up and grins, setting down his book.

"Hey, look at that. You actually showered. And shaved. It's a good look, Barnes. Very much an improvement."

The soldier just scowls slightly, Sam's words carrying an edge of teasing to them. He settles on the couch, peering at Sam's book. 

"What's that?"

Sam shows him the cover. " _Dreams From my Father_. It's by the guy who's President right now."

"Obama."

"Yep. Great dude. First black president." He holds up a finger. "Question-did they, like, tell you history shit in Hydra? Did you know what was going on in the world?"

"No. Sometimes the year. I read the books in Steve's apartment." The name feels like glass in his mouth and he swallows it down, ignoring it.

"Really? All of them?"

"No. Hydra came. Only some."

"What one was your favorite?"

The soldier hesitates. "I don't....have preferences."

Sam waves a hand. "That's bullshit. If you were to pick, which one did you like best?"

He thinks. "The Hobbit. I think I....read it before."

"Oh, yeah. It came out in what, 1937? You would definitely have been able to read it. You know that's not the only book. There's a trilogy after it. The Lord of the Rings. You should read it."

The soldier feels interest spark. "Yes."

Sam tilts his head back. "Hey, Jarvis, can you order the Lord of the Rings books? Use Steve's money, he's loaded."

"Certainly, Mr. Wilson. The books should arrive tomorrow."

"Thanks, Jarvis." Sam looks back at the soldier, grinning. "Everything's so easy here, I love it. Living in the lap of luxury. Anyway, what about least favorite book?"

The soldier remembers the strange sensation in his gut, throwing the book away, and grimaces. "Frankenstein."

Sam winces. "Yikes. Yeah, not a great book for you. Sorry."

The soldier looks down, tapping metal fingers against flesh. Sam waits, seeming to sense he has something to say. "I don't....feel real," the soldier admits quietly. "My body is not...mine."

"Depersonalization," Sam replies, voice soft. "Hydra made you lose all sense of identity, all sense of autonomy. They told you that you were a machine, not a person. It's normal to feel like your body doesn't quite belong to you after feeling separated from it for so long and having your will taken away. You also tend to dissociate a lot when you panic, which is a literal detachment from reality and from your body." Sam leans forward. "You have control now. Your body belongs to you and you alone. It's gonna take some time to feel that again, but it will get better. There's some things you can do to help with this. Want to try some?"

"Yes."

"Okay, so let's start with the easiest. Breathing."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, Steve will be back! Comments and Kudos always welcome.


	6. Chapter 6

  _-He sprawls on the threadbare couch, sweat dripping down the back of his neck and undershirt sticking to his chest. Steve sits at the desk, sketching, slim hand wrapped around the pencil and a smudge of graphite on his sweaty temple. A light breeze flows through the open window but does nothing to relieve the oppressive heat. Bucky groans, wrinkling his nose._

_"It's hotter'n hell out."_

_Steve doesn't reply, concentrating on sketching. Bucky gets up, coming to stand next to Steve and lean over him to look at the drawing. It's of him, sprawled on the couch. Steve huffs, irritated._

_"Hey, you weren't supposed to move."_

_"I was hot." Bucky plants a kiss on Steve's shoulder, bare except for a white undershirt. Steve wrinkles his nose._

_"Ew. I'm all sweaty."_

_"I don't care." Bucky blows on Steve's ear, making him squirm and swat him away as Bucky chuckles._

_"I hate you."_

_Bucky wraps his arms around Steve, planting a loud kiss against his cheek. "You love me."_

_"Bucky! Goddamn jerk!" Steve breaks and laughs, turning his head to capture Bucky's lips in a kiss-_

_-"I've been protecting him my whole life," he says. "There's nothing on this earth that could stop me from doing that, 'sides death. Maybe not even then."_

_Peggy slides her hand into his, brown eyes warm. "He loves you too, I can see it in his eyes whenever he looks at you. It would kill him to lose you."_

_"I know." He's silent for a moment. "But it'd kill me more to lose him. And he loves you too, I think." He looks up at Peggy, meeting her eyes. "Promise me, if I die, that you'll look after him. He needs someone like you. He'll go and get himself killed or something stupid like that otherwise."_

_Peggy hesitates before nodding, squeezing his hand. "I promise-"_

_-"James?" Peggy whispers. Her eyes are filled with grief and recognition, face older but still the same. The soldier takes a step backwards and then another as Peggy stands unmoving with shock, then turns and flees...._

_-into the correction room. Guards cuff his wrists to the wall as he struggles._

_"Remember, you deserve this," Lukin says._

_The whistle of something through the air is all the warning he gets before the silver-tipped whip cuts into his back and his world explodes in agony-_

_-Lukin drags the silver knife across his chest and he screams._

_"Say it. Say, 'I am not human. I do not question. I only follow orders.'"_

_He grits his teeth, something inside him stubbornly railing against Lukin. "No."_

_The knife comes down again, scoring deep into his side._

_"Say it."_

_He curls his hands into fists. "No-"_

_-A hand strikes his face-_

_-Red hair flashes in his vision, small hands locked around his neck._

_"Yasha."_

_"Little spider-"_

_-The metal clamps around his face and he screams-_

_-Dugan laughs, head tipped back, but the soldier fires and the bullet rips through his head. He keeps laughing as blood runs down his face-_

_-"Not a word-"_

_-Steve laughs as they dance around the apartment, his slender hand caught in Bucky's, but it's not the apartment, it's the cell, and Steve's face warps and the soldier is pinning him down, fist raised, Steve's face bruised and bloody-_

_-"Focus. Focus on me-"_

_-"You are nothing but a machine-"_

_-"Sarge!-"_

_-"Let me go! Yasha!-"_

_-"James?-"_

_-"Bucky! No!-"_

_-He is falling through the air-_

He wakes with a jerk, gasping for breath. He closes his eyes and counts in his head, trying to slow his breathing. In for one, two, three, four seconds. Hold for one, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Out for one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. He repeats it until his breathing steadies, moving to the next step and opening his eyes. Five things he can see. The coffee table. The rug. The windows. The blanket. The book on the table. He breathes steadily. Four things he can feel. The blanket over him. The couch under him. The ache of the metal arm. His hair on his face. He breathes. Three things he can hear. Sam breathing. The air from the vents. The quiet hum of the city outside. He breathes. Two things he can smell. Sam. The smell of the book on the table. He breathes. One thing he can taste. His mouth. 

He relaxes, feeling present and calm, neither panicked nor blank. He wiggles his fingers, watching the metal ones shift and whir, feeling the different sensations in the two hands. Then he wiggles his toes, curling them and flexing his feet, sitting up and leaning over to grab them, stretching. He straightens up and rolls his shoulders and then his neck, stretching each muscle and taking note of the feeling. This is his body. His body is his own. 

He adjusts the blankets around him and reaches over to grab the book from the table.  _The Fellowship of the Ring._ He's halfway through. It had arrived yesterday, and he'd spent the morning and evening reading split by a nap in the afternoon. He opens to the dog-eared page, beginning to read, eyes able to see the text perfectly even in the darkness. 

***

"Morning, Barnes." Sam shuffles past, heading for the kitchen. The soldier gets up, following him and sliding into a chair as Sam measures out coffee grounds into the fancy-looking machine and pours in water, turning it on. 

"Is Steve....safe?" the soldier asks. He knows he is safe from the warmth on his chest, but he knows Sam will tell him more.

Sam nods, setting a pan on the stove and turning on the burner. "Yeah. He hit a Hydra base in Germany. Burned it to the ground."

The soldier files this information away. Sam cracks eggs into the pan, humming softly as he cooks. The coffee finishes and he pours it into a mug, the scent familiar in the soldier's nose.

"Want some?"

The soldier hesitates, then nods. Sam pours some into another mug, sliding it across the table. The soldier wraps a hand around it, the warmth leeching into his skin and the smell making him think of damp earth and the smell of cigarettes, a tin cup in his hands. He takes a tentative sip, the taste flooding his mouth and making him blink in surprise. It's good, bitter and strong and familiar on his unused taste buds. 

Sam piles the eggs onto his plate and sits down across from the soldier, sipping his own coffee.

"Speaking of food, it's been a week for you. You need to feed?"

"Yes." The soldier is hungry, though it is not unbearable.

"Alright." Sam points a finger at him. "But you're brushing your teeth first."

Sam finishes his eggs and the soldier finishes his coffee, savoring the taste. Then the soldier brushes his teeth, meeting Sam back out in the living room. 

"Okay," Sam says. "This kinda freaks me out, not gonna lie. I think I need to be sitting for this." He sits on the couch and extends his wrist, looking away. "Just...don't kill me."

The soldier sits down on his left, taking his wrist and bringing it to his mouth. His fangs slip down and he feels Sam tense before he sinks them into his wrist. Sam inhales sharply but doesn't move, warm blood flooding the soldier's mouth and washing away the hunger. It is not as good as Steve, but still better than Hydra. He takes only enough to feel satiated before withdrawing his fangs and licking over the wound, making sure it seals completely. He releases Sam's wrist, staying still.

Sam studies his wrist, looking surprised, the puncture wounds small and bearing a shimmery seal to the soldier's eyes. "Huh. Steve was right. That didn't even hurt. And it's not bleeding, at all."

"Magic vampire powers," the soldier says, repeating Steve's words.

Sam laughs. "I guess so. But hey, that wasn't as bad as I expected. I could definitely do that again." He stands up. "Stark says he's almost done with my wings. Wants me to take a look. Want to come with?"

The soldier nods. Sam grins.

"Alright, come on. Just tell Stark to fuck off if he starts poking at your arm."

The soldier follows Sam into the elevator and up to a workshop, machinery and parts scattered everywhere. A small trundles towards them, mechanical arm moving up and down as it seems to inspect the soldier's arm. Then the grips open and it taps on it, the soldier stepping backwards warily. The robot follows.

"Hey! Dum-E! What did I say about being nice to guests?" Tony appears, a smudge of grease on his temple, fixing the robot with a disapproving glare. The robot seems to wilt, arm lowering before it whirs sadly and retreats. The soldier watches it, bemused.

"Hey, Count Barnes, nice to see you," Tony says. "How are things? Still murdery?"

The soldier is not sure how to respond. "No?"

"Great. Welcome to my workshop." Tony turns to Sam. "Sam Wilson. My favorite bird. Your wings are coming along nicely. Here, come see."

He turns and starts moving through the workshop. Sam throws the soldier a glance and a shrug, following. The soldier falls into step behind him, weaving through the various tables until they get to a large structure where wings are suspended, still only framework. Tony spreads his hands.

"Ta-da!"

Sam takes a step closer. "Wow. These look great. Carbon fiber, right?"

"Yep. Great flexibility plus durability. I was thinking, they should definitely have color. What do you think? A red maybe-"

Something taps the soldier's metal arm and he turns, seeing the robot from before. It clicks it's grips before tapping the arm again. 

"Hello," the soldier says quietly, holding out his metal arm for inspection.

The robot whirs happily. It reaches over and grabs something off the table, presenting it to the soldier. The soldier opens his hand and the robot drops it in. It's a screwdriver. The soldier frowns, confused. 

"What do you want me to do?"

The voices suddenly stop.

"Dum-E!" Tony calls in exasperation. "Stop bothering the amnesiac assassin and giving him screwdrivers." He strides over, the robot- _Dum-E_ -lowering its arm in shame. "Sorry about him. I think he's obsessed with your arm. I don't blame him. It's incredible." His gaze flicks to the screwdriver in the soldier's hand and the soldier senses a faint twinge of nervousness, suddenly realizing that it could be a weapon. Slowly, telegraphing his movements, the soldier sets the screwdriver on the table near Tony, drawing back. 

Tony blinks. "Oh. You didn't have to do that. I'm pretty sure if you wanted to kill me, you wouldn't need a screwdriver to do that. I'd already be dead." He suddenly brightens, as if getting an idea. "Hey, that arm is pretty useful, and you like science, right?"

The soldier blinks at him. Tony continues without stopping.

"Come on, help me with this part. I need another hand." He chuckles. "Ha! Hand, get it? Anyway..."

The soldier follows him over to the wings, bewildered. Tony gestures wildly, pointing to a part.

"Hold this." The soldier complies, gripping with the metal hand. "Great. Perfect. Okay, now I'm going to fit this on here..."

***

The soldier sits on the corner of the table, fiddling with a part as Dum-E watches, fixated on the metal arm. Sam had left a little while ago, saying he was going for a run, and the soldier has fallen into an easy rhythm with Tony, working on the wings and listening to Tony's idle chatter. The technology fascinates him, barely able to understand everything Tony says but mind filing it away regardless. There's something familiar about him, just on the edge of memory, and he remembers Tony saying he was friends with his father but doesn't remember it. Howard, his name was.

Tony comes over, holding out his hand. The soldier passes him the part, Tony inspecting it.

"This is great. Good work." He sets it down, glancing at the soldier's arm and hesitating. "You know, you have a tracker in there. The tower blocks the signal, but I could get it out if you wanted."

The soldier frowns, not having known that. "Yes." He wants no chance of Hydra finding him.

Tony brightens, rubbing his hands together. "Great. Stay right there." He grabs tools and piles them on the table, bringing up a screen showing schematics of the arm. "Okay, promise not to swat me?"

"Yes."

"Thanks." Tony steps up on the soldier's left side, taking a deep breath before starting to take the plates off. The soldier stays still, slight anxiety in his gut but focusing on breathing evenly as Tony works, Tony glancing at the schematics every so often. 

"This is incredible technology," Tony comments. "I would offer to build you a new one, but this sucker is pretty much part of you now. There's no getting it off. I can update some of the components, though, if you want. Make it run smoother."

The soldier considers. "Yes."

"Okay, just give me a little time to make some new parts. We can do it slowly, one at a time."

The soldier stays silent. Tony takes tweezers and reaches into the arm, carefully withdrawing something. He holds it up so the soldier can see. It's a small chip, a red light blinking slowly.

"Here it is. You want to crush it?"

The soldier holds the metal hand palm up. Tony drops the tracker into it and the soldier makes a fist, crushing the chip into pieces with a surge of anger. He exhales, opening his hand to see nothing but shards.

"Cathartic, right?"

The soldier nods, tipping the shards into the bin Dum-E helpfully brings over. Hydra can't track him any more. They don't own him any more.

Tony closes up the plates on the arm, uncharacteristically quiet. 

"I heard Steve left," he finally says, stepping back from the arm.

The soldier nods, swallowing. 

"Hey, space isn't always a bad thing. Pepper's in London right now. She kinda got turned into a fire-person a little while ago, and I had open-heart surgery and trashed all my suits. She's taking a much-needed vacation."

The soldier doesn't understand half of what Tony said, but he recognizes the attempt at sympathy.

"You're always welcome to come to my lab. Even if I'm not here. I don't know if you have healthier coping skills, but, well, I like to tinker with things instead of sleeping, especially when I'm missing Pepper. So, offer stands."

The soldier dredges up the words from distant memory, feeling something warm inside. "Thank you." 

***

The soldier returns to the apartment, hearing Sam in the shower. He flops down on the couch, wrapping himself in the blanket and falling asleep quickly.

- _"You do not question me," Lukin says-_

_-He fires and sees the target collapse through the scope of his rifle-_

_-"Focus-"_

_-"Sergeant Barnes-"_

_-"The man on the bridge._   _Who was he?"_

_"You met him earlier this week on another assignment."_

_"I knew him-"_

_-"Wipe him, and start over-"_

_-His metal hand wraps around the target's throat-_

_-"I don't care what happens to him as long as he does what he's supposed to-"_

_-"I'm sorry," the tech says quietly-_

_-His fist smashes into Steve's cheekbone over and over and over-_

_-"Not a word," Rumlow growls, breath hot on his ear-_

_-"You see, I don't like violence, but I realize its necessity. Hydra is trying to make the world a safer place, and when you disobey orders you threaten that. I'm the good guy here. Don't make me have to hurt you to ensure you do your part. Understood?-"_

_-Flames lick the sky as the building explodes-_

_-"You did that on purpose!" Rumlow snarls at the soldier. "You made me look like an idiot!" He punctuates every few words with kick. "You questioned me, you humiliated me in front of everyone. I was supposed to prove my worth to Pierce and you ruined it!" The soldier feels a rib snap. "You're never going to do this again...Never. You'll fucking...listen...to...me...never question me...ever again!-"_

_-_ _Hands restrain him and he thrashes, screaming._ _"Don't touch me, don't touch me, make it stop, make it stop-"_

He wakes with a jerk. He breathes, sensing Sam's presence in the room, pushing himself up into a sitting position. Sam looks over at him from the armchair.

"You okay?"

"No," the soldier snaps, feeling irritated and unsettled. He takes shaky breaths, trying to will his heart rate down.

"Okay," Sam says simply. 

The soldier exhales, feeling something loosen. He'd almost expected Sam to hurt him for talking back, even though he knows better. He grabs his book from the coffee table, curling into the corner of the couch and picking up where he left off.

***

"Hey Barnes, can you take the pan off the stove?" Sam asks. "My hands are kind of tied."

"No," the soldier says, and freezes, watching Sam.

Sam shrugs. "Okay."

The soldier exhales shakily, feeling relief blossom. Sam stays silent as he chops carrots, back turned to the soldier and posture unthreatening.

"The food is gonna burn, though," he says after a minute.

The soldier turns the burner off and brings the pan to the table. Sam finishes making dinner and sits down, piling food onto his plate.

"Can you pass the salt?"

"No." The soldier watches Sam, waiting for the anger.

The soldiers sees Sam's lip twitch but he keeps his face impassive, shrugging. "Okay."

The soldier slides the salt across the table, taking deep breaths.

***

The soldier does everything contrary to what Sam wants. He says 'no,' he purposefully ignores orders, he questions him, and still Sam does nothing. He takes everything with calm acceptance and an 'okay,' the soldier growing more and more bold and slightly frustrated. At some point, Sam will snap, and he will hurt the soldier. They always do.

It's been two days. Two days of persistent disobedience and questioning. The soldier feels like a live wire, constantly on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop as he needles Sam and snaps at him. He hasn't slept.

"Hey Barnes-"

"Fuck off."

Sam raises his hands, turns, and leaves.

Sam brushes past him on the way to the bathroom that evening and the soldier snaps, slamming him against the wall and wrapping the metal hand around his throat. Sam's eyes go wide and his heart rate kicks up but he stays frozen, eyes finding the soldier's.

"Barnes. Hey man."

The soldier is shaking, metal hand loosely clenched around Sam's throat, waiting for the correction. Surely, now, Sam will call in reinforcements. They'll drag the soldier away and hurt him, like they always do.

"I'm not gonna hurt you," Sam says. "I damn sure won't let you kill me, but I'm not gonna hurt you. I know what you've been doing. You're testing, seeing how far you can push me. I'm gonna say it again. I. Will. Not. Hurt. You. No one is going to hurt you, or make you do anything you don't want to ever again. You're in control. And yeah, you've been a bit of an asshole, and you're literally choking me right now, but I get it. It's okay. I'm just going to stay here until you've got your head back on straight. Unless you actually try to kill me, which you're not, nothing's going to happen to you."

The soldier scans Sam's face, searching for the lie, but finds nothing but honesty. Sam's eyes are warm and understanding, his heart rate elevated but even. The soldier feels his hand loosen and slip away as something breaks inside him, making him exhale sharply.

"I'm sorry," he chokes out. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry-"

He stumbles back and then sits down hard on the floor, beginning to cry.

***

The soldier takes shaky breaths, face puffy and streaked with tears and body sagging with exhaustion. Sam sits cross-legged in front of him in the hallway, a steady and reassuring presence as he waits. The soldier's breaths even out, becoming deeper, only marred by slight hitches every few moments.

"Better?" Sam asks softly.

The soldier nods. "I'm sorry," he croaks.

"You got nothing to be sorry for. You're figuring shit out, it's okay."

The soldier takes a deep breath. "I'm...a person."

"Definitely."

"Hydra was wrong. They lied to me."

Sam nods. "Yeah."

The soldier squeezes his eyes shut, pressing a hand to his forehead. "They hurt me."

Sam swallows. "Yeah, they did. And that was wrong."

The soldier takes another couple breaths before dropping his hand and opening his eyes, exhaling as tiredness washes over him.

"Come on," Sam says gently. "You haven't slept in two days. No offense, but you look like shit. Take a shower and then go to sleep. It'll make you feel better."

The soldier nods heavily before getting up and shuffling into the bathroom. He takes a quick shower, operating on muscle memory, before dressing in soft clothes and stumbling to the couch. He wraps himself in blankets and flops down, feeling drained and raw but somehow renewed, like cleaning a wound. His head hits the pillow and sleep pulls him down, peace washing over him.

***

He wakes slowly, blinking as light enters his vision. He sits up, taking the light streaming in the windows and smelling food cooking in the kitchen, Sam humming under his breath. It's morning. He had slept without dreams, and he feels more rested than he has in a long while. He stretches, back popping, before getting up and padding into the kitchen. Sam turns, jumping slightly when he sees him.

"Jesus Christ, you're like a fucking cat. Good morning, Barnes."

The soldier- _no,_   _Barnes, he's a person-_ nods, making a beeline for the coffee pot and pouring himself a cup. He can do whatever he wants. No one is going to hurt him. He sits down at the table, hands wrapped around the mug as he inhales the familiar scent.

"How's Steve?" he asks, voice slightly rough.

Sam flips a pancake. "Doing good. Kicking ass, taking names, blowing up Hydra. The usual. Some of the other Avengers are helping him. Hawkeye, Thor, Hulk. Romanoff's still off on her own, I guess."

"Avengers?"

"Wait, do you not know about them? And the Battle of New York? 2012?"

"No. The history book stopped in 2010."

Sam piles the pancakes onto a plate, sitting down. "Okay. Well, brace yourself. First of all, aliens are real."

"What?"

Sam nods. "Yup. So, I'll start at the beginning. There's aliens, but also Gods who are aliens. Wait, no, maybe I should start with just the aliens. No, there was that guy. Loki. Right. So, Loki is a God but also an alien..."

***

Barnes sets down  _The Two Towers,_ blinking. Sam looks up, a slight grin pulling the corners of his mouth.

"Ah, you finished. Good?"

The soldier nods. 

"Okay, next book. Hmm." Sam suddenly brightens, snapping his fingers. "I know, Harry Potter. Jarvis, you got that?"

"The books should arrive tomorrow," Jarvis replies.

"Thanks. I'm gonna get you caught up on popular culture, Barnes. Hey, since you finished the books, want to watch the movies?"

"Movies?"

"Yeah, they made the whole trilogy and two out of three parts of the Hobbit are out right now. The third's coming in December. Hey Jarvis, can you play the first one? Lord of the Rings, not the Hobbit."

"Certainly." The tv turns on, Barnes watching, interested, as the screen changes to something called Amazon and selects the movie, beginning to play. Sam moves over to the couch, stealing one of Barnes' blankets.

***

By the time they get through all five movies it's late, only having paused for Sam to get food and eat it in front of the tv. Sam begs off to bed and Barnes makes the couch up to sleep on, watching the twinkling lights of the city through the windows before he drifts off to sleep.

_-"James Barnes. Sergeant. 32557038," he mumbles, eyes fluttering. "James-"_

_Hands shake him gently. "Sarge. Hey. It's me. You're alright now."_

_He blinks heavily, a face swimming in his vision. Dum Dum. His eyes are wide and uncharacteristically scared as he looks down at Bucky, face pale and bruised and streaked with dust. More hands work to undo the reinforced cuffs, the figures of the other men swimming in his vision-_

_-Someone is singing softly, a gentle hand stroking his forehead. The singing stops and someone kisses his forehead, brushing away sweaty strands of hair._

_"Get well soon, darling boy," a voice murmurs. "Your Ma's right here."_

_-A girl giggles, brown curls bouncing on her shoulders._ _"Bucky!"_

_He runs and wraps his arms around her, swinging her around as she shrieks-_

_-He slings his arms over Steve's shoulders, shaking him slightly. "Come on, man. It's my last night-"_

_-Lights flash and music swirls around them as Bucky dances, laughing as he twirls a girl-_

_-"James Barnes. Sergeant. 32557038-"_

_-He pins Steve down on the narrow bed, bending down to press his lips against Steve's-_

_-"Thank you, Buck, but I can get by on my own."_

_"The thing is, you don't have to. I'm with you till the end of the line, pal-"_

_-He falls away from Steve, a scream torn from his lips-_

_-A hand grips his chin, scrubbing at his cheek as he squirms._

_"Ma!" he protests._

_"I won't have any child of mine going out looking like some kind of street urchin-"_

_-"James Barnes. Sergeant. 32557038-"_

_-The knife cuts through his skin, gloved hands peeling his flesh back as doctors peer inside, Bucky clenching his teeth around a scream-_

_-"James Barnes. Sergeant. 32557038-"_

_-A hand strikes his face-_

_-"Remember you deserve this-"  
_

_-"James Barnes. Sergeant. 32557038-"_

He wakes gasping and trembling, soaked in sweat. He sits up, breathing as he counts. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. He looks around as he continues to breathe. Five things he can see. The coffee table. The rug. The windows. The blanket over him. The dark tv. He breathes in for four, holds for seven, exhales for eight seconds. Four things he can feel. The blanket over him. The ache of the metal arm. His sweaty hair sticking to his face. His feet on the floor. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. Three things he can hear. Sam breathing. His steady heartbeat. The city outside. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. Two things he can smell. Sam. The food from last night. He breathes. One thing he can taste. The coffee he drank. He breathes.

He wiggles his fingers, then his toes. This is his body. It is his. He is Barnes. He is a person. He breathes.  _He is a person._

 


	7. Chapter 7

He finds himself in Tony's workshop. Tony's there, and looks up when he walks in, but doesn't say anything, only nodding and tapping one of the tables. Barnes hefts himself up, picking up the miscellaneous pieces of metal and parts scattered over it and starting to fiddle with them, creating whatever his fingers make. They work in silence, the clink and scrape of metal the only sounds.

Finally, as the first rays of sunlight start to filter through the windows Tony stops, setting the part he's been working on down and stretching. 

"Well, I know you don't eat but I'm starving. Mind if I join you and Wilson for breakfast?"

Barnes shakes his head, setting down the contraption he'd made and jumping down from the table. They trudge into the elevator and ride down to Barnes' floor, Sam already up and starting to make food. 

"Hey," he says. "Jarvis told me where you were. Stark, you staying for breakfast?"

"If you wouldn't mind."

"Not a problem." Sam cracks another couple eggs into the pan as Barnes heads towards the shower, still sticky with sweat. He washes quickly, changing into new clothes and emerging just as Sam and Tony sit down to breakfast. He pours himself a cup of coffee, sliding into his own chair.

"So you  _do_ eat," Tony comments.

Barnes shakes his head. "I can, but I don't. I just...like coffee."

Tony nods, eyes sparking with excitement. "Yeah, your system is fascinating. You're basically like anyone else, except you metabolize blood instead of food. You still have to breathe, and you sweat and bleed so you're definitely alive, only you've got accelerated healing and enhanced senses and strength. And the fangs, of course. You're allergic to garlic and silver, but you have a reflection and you're not invulnerable or immortal. So, like, some of the vampire myths, but not all."

Barnes blinks. He hadn't known all of that, beyond the vaguest sense of living it. 

"And you're the only one we know of," Tony continues. "I mean, there must be others, right?"

Barnes frowns, dredging up faint memories of overheard conversations. "Yes. The...Black Widow."

Tony chokes and Sam freezes, a fork halfway to his mouth.

"What?" Tony gasps.

Barnes raises an eyebrow. "They were....unsuccessful in making more, until the Black Widow."

Sam stares at him. "Are you telling me that Romanoff is a vampire?"

Something pricks at the edge of his memory. "Natalia," he murmurs. "Natalia Alianovna Romanova." There's something else, something he knows..... _"Little spider,"_ he says in Russian, thinking of red hair and a small hand in his.

"You knew her," Tony states, not a question. "Oh my god. Did you, like, turn her?"

Pain spikes through Barnes' head and he brings a hand up, rubbing his temple. "I don't know. I don't remember."

"Romanoff is a vampire," Sam repeats dumbly. "Wait, you shot her and then when we got to the bunker a doctor took her away, and she was perfectly fine afterwards....oh my god. Now it makes sense."

"I shot her?"

"Oh. Uh, yeah. Second time, apparently."

"I don't remember."

"I figured." Sam sits back in his chair. "Wow."

"I've known her for years," Tony exclaims. "How did I not know this?"

"She's a spy," Sam replies. "Of course she'd be able to hide it. Only Fury must know."

"Motherfucking Fury," Tony says. "I'm going to have words with Romanoff." He starts eating again, quickly, shoveling food in his mouth. "In fact, I'm going to track her down right now and have words with her." He shoves the last bite in his mouth and grabs his coffee, standing up. "Great talk." Then he's leaving, elevator doors closing behind him.

"Hey, he took my mug-" Sam starts and then sighs, turning back to his food. "I'll never understand Stark. But hey, he's letting us live here for free and building me new wings, so I can't complain." He squints at Barnes. "I still can't believe Romanoff is a vampire. You know if there are any others?"

Barnes shakes his head. "I don't know. I don't think so."

"Huh. You'd think there would be." He shrugs. "I don't know. I'd be happy with fewer in the world. You and Romanoff are definitely enough. I like my blood inside my body, thank you very much."

Barnes stays silent, head still aching slightly. 

***

"Do you tell Steve...about me?"

Sam shakes his head. "Not a word."

Barnes freezes, terror washing over him. He blinks and he's on the couch, gasping and shaking, everything spinning and blurry with panic, where is he, what is-what is happening, he is back in the cell, hot breath on his ear and hands on him, voice speaking low and threatening-

"-arnes. Barnes. You're okay. Just breathe. With me-"

The panic builds and then everything stops.

***

He blinks to find himself on the couch. He senses Sam near him and turns his head, finding him on the armchair. Sam looks up.

"Hey man, you back with me?"

Barnes nods slowly, the memories rushing back in. He curls into himself, putting a hand over his face. " _Fuck_."

"Hey, it's okay. It happens. You got triggered by something."

Barnes takes a shaky breath, feeling a horrible dark hole in his midsection. "It's what...he-he used....to say-" He cuts off, squeezing his eyes shut and biting down hard on his lip. 

"I'm sorry. I didn't know."

Barnes feels his hand shake. "Hydra was... _bad,_  I-the Russians were better, they were...good-"

"Barnes, I've seen the tapes. The Russians were pretty fucking bad."

He shakes his head. "No. No, they were-they were good, I want to...go back, I want it to stop-"

He hears Sam take a deep breath. "I know...in comparison, the Russians probably seemed better. But they were still bad, and they were still Hydra for the most part. The thing is, they had you under some sort of mind control, like hypnosis. You might not remember everything clearly. They hurt you. Bottom line. They made you kill people for them. The Russians were  _bad."_

He shakes his head again. "I don't know, I don't know, I can't, they...fixed me, they made it stop, I want to go back-"

"They  _tortured_ you, and then they wiped your memories and put you under mind control. Listen, I understand that that probably seems easier. You didn't have to think, right? No memories, nothing. Just orders. But it was  _wrong._ They told you that you weren't a person, and they took away all your autonomy and tortured you until you stopped fighting back. That's just...fucked-up. You get to be a person now, and sometimes that's hard. Being a person can suck. But at least you're yourself. No one's controlling you, no one's hurting you. You have a life, and you can do whatever you want with it. Okay?"

He feels his lower lip tremble. "But I just want it to  _stop,"_ he whispers. "I don't want to remember."

Sam is silent for a moment. "I know," he says quietly. "I know."

The soldier curls tighter in on himself and falls silent, the hole inside him widening. 

***

_-He can see his insides, the doctors poking and prodding them as they jot down notes, the blood dripping through the IV keeping him alive-_

_-"How well can you see?"_

_"James Barnes. Sergeant. 32557038."_

_The silver knife draws over his skin again and he screams-_

_-"Answer me."_

_Tears prick at Bucky's eyes. Lukin lifts the knife and Bucky inhales sharply._

_"Yes. Yes."_

_Lukin lowers the knife. "Good-"_

_-The knife slices the sole of his foot and the soldier sobs, breaking._

_"Stop. Stop, please, make it stop, please-"_

_"Say it."_

_He takes a ragged breath, eyes squeezing closed. "I am not human," he rasps. "I do not question. I only follow orders."_

_"Good job, soldier-"_

_-His legs tremble under him, blindfolded face pressed to the wall and right arm shaking with strain. His back burns with fire, pulsing in time with the wound on his right thigh, his metal shoulder throbbing with a deep ache from the stress position. Hunger claws at his insides but there is no relief, no one even in the room. He strains his senses but picks up nothing, the complete quiet and total darkness in his vision pressing in on him. Quiet sobs escape, dampening the blindfold with tears, sweaty hair sticking to his forehead_ _-_

_-"No," he sobs, "No, I don't want to go back, please, I don't want to, I remember, they lied to me, it was wrong, I don't want-please, I want it to stop, make it stop, please, I want to go home-"_

_"Yeah, you're going home alright," an agent says, hand digging into his shoulder painfully. "Gonna take you right back to Russia and they'll fix this fucking mess."_

_"No, it's not-no, I don't want it, it's not home, you're lying, I'm American, I have a name, I'm from-I'm from Brooklyn, I-Steve, I knew him, he's-he's-"_

_"He's no one. Be quiet."_

_"No, he's-he's someone, I knew him, I remember, he's-he's coming for me, he is, he'll come for me-"_

_-Cloth is pulled tightly over his face and water trickles into his mouth and nose, making him choke and cough as panic builds. He thrashes, straining against the cuffs, but he is trapped, unable to move, drowning on dry land-_

_-Everything is dark, the blindfold cutting into his face and his breaths harsh through the mask. His broken legs tremble under him, kept in place by the bar, right wrist burning as it pulls against the cuff and metal shoulder aching with the strain-_

_-He struggles slightly against the cuffs, panic clawing at his insides as Rumlow pins him in place._

_"Stay still," Rumlow says, and his hand digs into the soldier's burned side, making him bite down on a scream. Pure, unadulterated panic fills him and a whimper escapes, the soldier pressing his forehead into the wall as he trembles and jerks with the pain. This is not the Russians. The Russians would never do this. There is no purpose to this except to hurt him, to show that Rumlow is in complete control. Rumlow is saying something, breath hot against his neck, but the soldier feels himself retreating into his head where it is safe and quiet, going limp against the wall-_

He wakes gasping for breath, the room dark and quiet. Nausea rolls in his gut and he struggles off the couch, stumbling down the hallway to the bathroom on instinct. He collapses next to the toilet and dry heaves, nothing in his system to throw up, body shaking and breaths still coming in gasps. He pushes away from the toilet, back hitting the wall as he brings his knees up and rests his elbows on them, hands clutching his head as he tries to breathe. 

The Russians were not good. Sam was right. The Russians were  _bad._ They hurt him and they took everything away and it's too much, it won't stop, it never stops, make it stop-

Footsteps sound and the light clicks on, Barnes flinching and squeezing his eyes shut. He hears Sam crouch down in front of him.

"Hey," Sam says softly. "Can you try and breathe for me?"

He takes a shuddering breath in and holds as long as he can before exhaling slowly, breath trembling. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. 

"Good," Sam is saying. "Just like that."

In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. He breathes and trembles, eyes opening to stare at nothing, the memories of darkness and pain pressing at him as everything goes numb.

"Hey, hey, Barnes, stay with me."

He drags himself back to awareness, everything coming back into sharp focus and the onslaught of memory and emotion crushing him once more. He clenches his teeth as hot tears spill down his face, breaths hitching and fingers digging into his scalp. 

"I want it to  _stop,"_ he sobs.

Sam lowers himself to sit cross-legged in front of him. "I know. I'm sorry. You don't deserve this."

No, he-he  _didn't,_ he didn't deserve it, it was wrong, he was a person and they took that from him, they took everything from him-

His metal arm whirs and he brings it down, fist smashing into the ground beside him and crushing the tile. 

"I _hate_ them!" he chokes out, half scream and half sob. "I hate them I hate them I hate them-" He chokes off, breaths heaving and tears streaming down his face. He curls forward, resting his forehead on his knees and wrapping his arms around himself as he cries.

***

He finally uncurls from his ball, wiping his face with his flesh hand and taking deep breaths.

"Better?" Sam asks.

Barnes nods slightly, feeling drained but anger starting to simmer in his gut.

"It's still pretty early," Sam notes. "Let's at least get off this floor." He gets up with a groan, holding a hand out to Barnes. Barnes takes it, hauling himself up and feeling his joints protest. He follows Sam out to the living room, grabbing his blanket and wrapping himself up again before curling into the corner, Sam taking the other end and stealing another blanket. They sit in silence, Barnes watching the twinkling lights of the city in the darkness as Sam's head droops and his eyes flutter closed, slipping into sleep. Barnes clenches his jaw as he stares into the distance, cold anger building and filling the hole inside him. He  _hates_ them. He hates Hydra.

***

Sam grunts, waking up, Barnes still sitting in the same position and seething with quiet anger and hatred. Sam stretches, yawning.

"Good morning."

Barnes gets up, moving into the bathroom and turning on the shower. He sees the hole in the tile from his fist and turns away, feeling on edge and unsettled, anger simmering just below the surface. He turns on the shower, quickly stripping and getting in. He washes his hair, shuddering as the water streams over his face and flashes of memory play before his eyes. When he gets to his body he stops, revulsion and anger rising as he looks at the scars that litter his body. He  _hates_ them. He's a monster, a scarred, disfigured creature of nightmare who's slaughtered people in cold blood, who Hydra had hurt and erased until there was nothing left. Bucky is  _gone,_ he's dead, and all that's left is Barnes. He's nothing. His body is _horrifying._ It is broken. He is broken. He feels tears sting his eyes and slams his metal fist into the wall with a quiet scream, angry at Hydra, at himself, the world, everything. Angry that they hurt him, that they took everything from him and made him believe he wasn't a person, angry that they made him hurt other people, angry that he hurt Steve, angry that he's too broken to even be near Steve now, that he's nothing, he's not Bucky, he'll never be Bucky-

"Barnes! What the hell is going on in there?"

"Leave me the _fuck_ alone!" he yells back, pressing his forehead to the wall and swallowing down a sob. He takes a deep breath and turns the water off, stepping out and wrapping the towel around his waist. He wipes the condensation off the mirror and grabs the razor, starting to shave. His hand shakes and he cuts himself, slamming the razor down. "Fuck! God- _fucking-damnit!_ " 

He takes a deep breath, picking up the razor again and finishing in a few strokes, the cut on his chin barely bleeding. He sets it down, breathing deeply as he glances up in the mirror at his reflection.

He looks...like hell. His face is pale and puffy, eyes slightly red-rimmed and underscored by dark circles, eyes haunted and full of anger. Water trails down his neck from his hair, which hangs in tangled strands around his face, and he can see the ragged scars on his shoulder where the metal arm meets flesh, another part of his body that is not his. His face looks nothing like Bucky, and yet it is so similar it hurts. He had been Bucky, once, but Hydra had burned him out, had buried him so deep with pain and fear that he's no more than ash. Bucky is  _dead._ It is Barnes who killed people all those years, it is his hands, metal and flesh, that choked the life out of them, his finger that pulled the trigger, his eyes that were the last thing some saw before they died. It is Barnes' body that bears the scars, his mind that holds the memories, and yet he is still haunted by the ghost of Bucky Barnes. He is everywhere, in every glance Steve threw at him, in every line of his face and the curve of his brow, in the way his body knows things he has forgotten. It is Bucky who received a mother's gentle touch, whose ears heard soft lullabies and whose arms were made to wrap around others, whose lips were made to smile and kiss and laugh. As Barnes stares into the mirror he suddenly feels a rush of anger, of hatred for the ghost haunting his reflection, hatred of himself who'd let himself be lied to all those years. His metal arm whirs and he drives his fist into the mirror with a scream, smashing it into pieces as his reflection shatters like his soul.

"Barnes! Don't make me come in there!"

"Fuck off!"

He wrenches open the door, striding to his bedroom and slamming the door. He goes to sit on the bed before startling away, memories clawing at him and making his stomach turn.

"Fuck!"

He finds clothes and pulls them on, not looking at his mutilated body or the bed, hand shaking as he struggles into them. He slinks back out into the hallway, entering the kitchen and going straight to the steaming coffee pot, pouring himself a cup and slouching into a chair. Sam watches him with a raised eyebrow as he scrambles eggs.

"Did you break the bathroom?"

Barnes scowls, not answering.

"Ah, we're in the anger stage," Sam says knowingly.

"What the fuck does that mean?" Barnes growls.

"It means," Sam says calmly, "that you're learning to be a person again, and you're starting to express emotions. Anger is one of them, often one of the first ones, and you have a lot to be angry about. It's okay to feel."

Barnes scowls harder, shifting uncomfortably. He takes a sip of his coffee. "I may have...broken the mirror. And the wall. And the floor, last night."

Sam nods. "Well, lucky for us, we live with a billionaire. It can be fixed. Go ahead and punch as many walls as you need to."

***

Barnes sits on the couch, fingering the pages of his book.

"How's Steve?" he ventures.

Sam looks up. "He's good. Took out another base. Hydra's running for the hills."

Barnes clenches his jaw. "Good."

***

He wanders into Tony's workshop in the afternoon, finding him working on the nearly-finished wings. He looks up at Barnes' entrance, wiping his hands on his jeans. 

"Manchurian Candidate! Good to see you."

Barnes nods, hefting himself onto a workbench.  _Manchurian Candidate?_ He ignores it, swatting away Dum-E as it tries to tap his arm, grips clicking.

"You want me to start working on your arm?" Tony offers. "I've got some new components."

Barnes hesitates, then nods. Tony brightens, grabbing a box from a table and setting it on the workbench. He steps up next to him, picking up a tool and starting to pry off the plates on his forearm. Barnes watches, something pressing at the edge of his memory.

"Stark..." he says slowly. "I...knew your father?"

Tony nods slowly, grimacing slightly, heart rate spiking for some reason. "Yup. You...remember?"

"No."

Tony looks relieved and his heart rate subsides, composing his face again. "I'm actually kind of glad. I'm the better version, anyway. No need to remember Howard. If you ever do, just remember, you like me best." Tony looks up and points a screwdriver at him.

Barnes raises an eyebrow. "Okay." Something tugs at him about Tony's upturned face, eyes studying his...

_"Sergeant Barnes?"_

He sucks in a breath. Tony stops, looking up again. "You okay?"

Barnes raises a hand to his temple, rubbing at the familiar ache of memory. "I..."

_His fist smashes into the target's face over and over-_

_"Howard!-"_

He stares at Tony, horror rising. "No," he breathes.

Tony frowns, backing away a step. "What? What's wrong? Do I need to get Sam?"

"I  _killed_ him," he chokes out. He throws himself off the workbench, stumbling backwards as his breaths pick up. "No, no I-I killed him, I killed them, I-" His back hits the wall and he chokes on a sob, feeling something twist inside him as he slides to the floor. "No, no no no no no-"

Tony looks like he's been struck. He swallows and then takes a step towards Barnes, face pale. "I know," he says shakily.

Barnes stares at Tony, struggling to breathe. "What?"

"I watched the tapes from Russia. December 16, 1991. You retrieved an experimental serum. It didn't take a genius to figure it out." He looks down. "They also had...a tape of it, but I didn't watch it. I didn't need to see that." He takes a breath. "But point is, I don't blame you. Not after what I watched. Not after hearing stories about you from my dad. It wasn't you. You didn't have a choice."

Barnes feels a tear slip down his cheek. "But I  _did_ it."

Tony sighs. "Well, yeah, that is the kicker, isn't it. I'll honest, I was pretty upset when I first figured it out. My first though was to go down and beat the shit out of you. But I drank and I tinkered and I thought, and I watched some more of those god-awful tapes, and I cooled down enough to realize I was blaming the wrong person. I already knew Hydra killed my parents, it didn't make a difference that you had pulled the trigger. It was still their fault."

Barnes puts his head in his hand, choked sobs escaping as he curls into himself. He hears Tony walk towards him, and then he is sinking to the ground on Barnes' right with his back to the wall and legs stretched out in front of him, sighing.

"We're quite a pair, huh? Listen, I've been where you are-I mean, not literally, but I've got a shit-ton of trauma and guilt that I still don't handle very well. Why do you think I'm always here at three a.m. instead of sleeping? I've got PTSD and anxiety, and I don't need a psychologist license to say that you've got those too. Your traumas have traumas. And it's tough shit, is really is. The world is fucked-up. But you keep going, every day, because that's what heroes do. And you're a hero, Barnes, whether you like it or not."

Barnes exhales, sobs stopping as he breathes unevenly, tears still sliding down his face. "You don't...hate me?"

"No. I don't think I could if I tried." Tony sighs. "I remember, yesterday morning, I was up tinkering because I had a nightmare. You came into the workshop and I could immediately tell you'd had one too, and your solution was to come here, to build things. You actually took me up on my offer. I thought, "wow, he gets me." I'd never felt that kind of understanding with another person. I don't have many friends, besides Rhodey. It was just...nice, having someone else here. To not be alone. I forgot all about the fact that you'd killed my parents, and I didn't even realize until after. I just...forgot about it. It didn't matter. So no, I don't hate you. I like you, Barnes. I like you a lot."

***

Sam walks in, stopping as he sees them both sitting on the floor, backs to the wall, Barnes' eyes still red and puffy from crying.

"Uhhh-"

Tony waves a hand. "Just discussing dead parents, you know. Hydra. Mind control. Stuff like that."

Sam looks at Barnes warily. "You...remembered?"

He nods.  

Sam grimaces. "Oh."

Tony stands up with a groan, offering a hand to Barnes. "Well, I think I've reached my limit for feelings for the day. Let me put your arm back together real quick." He pulls Barnes to his feet and leads the way back over to the workbench, picking up the plate he'd taken off. Barnes extends his arm and Tony clicks it back into place, the plates shifting as they recalibrate.  "All set. Come back whenever and I'll keep working on it."

Barnes nods. "Thank you," he says sincerely, trying to convey a deeper meaning.

Tony looks at him, pauses and nods back, swallowing. "Yeah."

Barnes follows Sam out, feeling drained and with something aching in his chest. Sam doesn't ask, thankfully, staying silent as they reach the apartment. Barnes flops onto the couch, picking up his book and starting to read as Sam starts to make dinner.

*** 

_-"Sergeant Barnes?"_

_His fist smashes into Howard's face once, twice, letting him crumple to the ground._

_"Howard!"_

_He drags him into the driver's seat and walks around the car, wrapping his right hand around the woman's throat until her pulse stops under his hand-_

_-"Sergeant Barnes?"_

_He pulls the trigger and the man crumples to the ground-_

_-"James?"_

_He turns and flees-_

_-"Yasha?-"_

_-_ _"You need a name," Natalia asserts._   _"I cannot just call you 'soldier.'"_

_"I am the soldier."_

_Natalia studies him._   _"Yasha. You look like a Yasha."_

_"I don't have a name."_

_"I am giving you one."_

_"Okay. But do not let the others hear, or we will both be corrected. It must be our secret-"_

_"-Little spider-"_

_"-No! Yasha!-"_  

_-"You got a name, stranger?"_

_He shakes his head. "No."_

_The man raises his hands. "Alright, won't ask. As long as you don't bring trouble 'round here we're cool." He studies the soldier. "You look like a Jim, so that's what we'll call you-"_

_"-Hey Sarge-"_

_"-Bucky-"_

_-His fist cracks against Steve's cheekbone over and over and over-_

_-"You look familiar. Have we met before?-"_

_-"You do not have a name-"_

_-"James Barnes. Sergeant. 32557038. James Barnes. Sergeant. 32557038-"_

He wakes gasping. Hot rage fills him and he wrenches up, metal arm whirring, before driving it through the coffee table with a crash, kneeling on the floor and breathing heavily. There's a sharp gasp from Sam's room as he wakes and then a groan. 

"Barnes! Are you breaking shit again?"

"Fuck off!"

"I'll take that as a yes! Come on, I'm trying to sleep!"

Barnes scowls and punches the remnants of the coffee table again.

"For the love of God, could you at least be quiet about it?"

"Make me!" He snarls.

"You know I'm not going to do that, asshole! Stop using your trauma against me!"

Barnes scowls, sitting down heavily on the couch and taking deep breaths, head dropping into his hands. There's another groan from Sam's room and then footsteps approach, Sam shuffling out into the living room as Barnes looks up. Sam raises an eyebrow at the destruction.

"We need a new coffee table," Barnes rasps.

"Yeah, you think?" Sam sighs. "Alright, I'm up now, might as well stay up. You want something to really punch?"

"What?"

Sam moves towards the elevator, jerking his head. "Come on. There's a whole training floor for the Avengers. You can punch as much shit as you like."

Barnes gets up, following him into the elevator, the doors closing behind them and silence falling.

"Sorry," he says quietly.

Sam shakes his head. "You got nothing to be sorry about. I got your back, Barnes."

 


	8. Chapter 8

The elevator opens up into a large space ringed by a track and complete with mats and a sparring area and punching bags along one wall, a firing range just visible further back and the ceiling high and vaulted. 

"Here we are," Sam says. "All this is reinforced for Avengers. Go nuts. I'm gonna go for a run." He bends down to tighten the laces on his sneakers and starts stretching as Barnes does the same, rolling his shoulder and settling into the familiar motions. He has hazy memories of doing this with someone else, a small form next to him and red hair flashing in his vision. Natalia, he thinks. He must have trained her. 

When he's sufficiently loosened up he moves to the punching bags, Sam taking off into a slow jog around the track. Barnes never used punching bags with Hydra but somehow he seems to know this, thinks of taped knuckles and cheering crowds and a gloved fist meeting someone's face. He settles into position, starting slow as his body falls back into practiced motions. He's been inactive for too long, but with his enhanced strength it doesn't matter. He feels the anger build in his core and he channels it outwards, landing a spin-kick to the bag, his metal arm whirring as he drives it forward with a loud thwack. The bag creaks and sways but doesn't break, reinforced heavily for Steve no doubt. He keeps going, throwing all his training and strength into it, sweat starting to drip down the back of his neck and breaths growing labored. He spins, rolls, kicks out at the bag and then winds up, metal arm whirring, before it crashes into the bag, the chain snapping and sending the bag flying through the air to hit the floor with a thump. Barnes stands, breathing heavily and feeling the anger drain out of him.

"Damn," Sam breathes, slowing to a stop near him. "I'm sure glad you're on our side now. Feel better?"

Barnes nods. "Yeah."

"Great. Maybe now you can stop breaking the apartment."

Barnes huffs. 

Sam grins. "Now come on, I'm starving."

***

The water runs over him, soothing his aching muscles and washing away the last of the tension. The hole in the wall is still there, but Sam had cleaned up the shards of the mirror at some point, leaving an empty frame behind. He's ordering a new one, apparently. Barnes shuts the water off and gets out, the smell of cooking meeting his nose as he wraps the towel around himself and strides down the hallway. He pulls on more clothes, tugging his sleeve over his wrist to cover the scars before wandering out to the kitchen, pouring himself a cup of coffee and sliding into a chair. 

"How's Steve?" It's getting easier to say, the name no longer jagged and painful but warm and familiar, the memories of Steve growing stronger and stronger each day.

"He's doing good. I think he's in Russia."

"And you don't...tell him about me?"

Sam shakes his head. "Nope. I tell him you're alive, but your recovery is your own. He doesn't have a right to know what you're going through unless you want to tell him."

Barnes considers this. He is...glad. He's not sure he wants Steve to know everything that's happened, how broken he is. It would ruin his image of Bucky, make him understand that he's dead and it's only Barnes now, bring that pained look into his eyes. Sam doesn't care and didn't know Bucky before. Barnes is all he knows. It is...easier, this way.

He nods. "Thank you."

Sam sits down, digging into his eggs. "No need to thank me. You have a right to privacy, no matter how close you guys used to be. I'm not exactly your therapist, but we can still have confidentiality. Anything you do or tell me stays between us. Only way I break that confidentiality is if you're gonna hurt yourself or someone else."

Barnes nods, understanding. It's...reassuring. He's never been offered privacy. Hydra, doctors, agents, techs, they'd all talked about him like he wasn't there. He had no autonomy, no privacy, nothing. It's exhilarating and terrifying, to be given so much control. He makes his own choices now, expresses  _wants,_ talks back, says no. He's a person. _He is a person._

***

He starts to fall into a routine. He wakes early from nightmares and either goes to the training floor or Tony's workshop, depending on how he's feeling. When he wakes angry and full of hatred he punches things, pretending the bag is Hydra or usually Rumlow's face, and when he wakes scared and overwhelmed he slinks up to Tony's workshop and fiddles with things until his hand stops shaking, Tony usually there and occasionally filling the silence with idle chatter that calms him. Sam usually is up and taking a run a little while later, and Barnes heads back to the apartment to shower and drink coffee while Sam eats breakfast. Then he usually reads on the couch, sometimes taking a nap in the afternoon if he feels like it. Sam makes dinner and they watch a movie, on the Harry Potter ones right now as Barnes finishes each book. Sam feeds him at the week mark, more comfortable with it now.

The coffee table gets replaced, as does the mirror in the bathroom, and Tony helps to fix the holes in the wall and floor. Barnes has a  _panic attack,_ as Sam calls them, when Tony tries to clap him on the shoulder, and they quickly learn that touch is a no. Barnes still flinches whenever Sam or Tony get close or Tony gestures too wildly, though he's noticed Tony making an effort to tone it down, having looked pained when Barnes flinched away from him the first time. He feels on edge more often than not, flinching at any noise and constantly surveying his surroundings for threats even though he knows he's safe in the apartment. He is irritable, too, snapping at Sam and then apologizing later. He checks out- _dissociates-_ a few more times after a nightmare, and spends two days laying on the couch without moving, everything dull and grey and memories of killing people weighing him down, before Sam forcefully suggests he gets off his ass and he manages to drag himself out of his spiral.

Memories are coming back. They're hazy, and often distorted, but they're there. Knowledge starts to slot into place and memories fill in the gaps until he's pieced together a rough tapestry of his life in his mind. The memories of Bucky don't feel real, as if he's watching them on a movie screen, as if they're happening to someone else and not him, but the ones of Steve always feel real. Steve is everywhere, woven through Bucky's memories like vine around a tree. Barnes thinks he knows Steve better than he knows himself. It has been almost three weeks since Steve left, more than five weeks since the Helicarrier, and Barnes presses a hand to his chest as he searches for him, hearing the echo of his steady heartbeat in his ears. Steve is safe. That is all that matters.

***

_-He leans forward and presses his lips to Steve's before recoiling, sputtering apologies as he flushes red. Steve blinks at him, and smiles, before grabbing him and kissing him square on the mouth. He pulls back, both of them staring at each other for a moment before they break into laughter-_

_-The Commandos laugh, all of them drunk but Steve and Bucky still sober, shoulders pressed together as they sit on the ground in the tent._

_"Tell another one, Sarge," Morita slurs._

_Bucky grins. "Alright, so this one time-"_

_-Steve straddles him, face flushed and utterly beautiful to Bucky._

_"I'm not...exactly sure how to do this," he says._

_Bucky chuckles. "Me neither. We'll figure it out." He crooks a finger and Steve smiles, leaning down to kiss him-_

_-A heavy weight presses him down, hands digging into his shoulders-_

_-A hand wraps around his throat, squeezing tightly as he chokes and panics, wrists tied to the bedpost-_

_-A hand wraps around his throat, squeezing lightly as he gasps and shivers with desire, Steve smiling down at him in adoration-_

_-His fist cracks against Steve's cheekbone over and over and over-_

_-He fires and sees the target fall through the scope of his rifle-_

_-He fires and sees the Hydra agent fall through the scope of his rifle, Steve turning and snapping off a salute-_

_-"Hey! Pick on someone your own size!-"_

_-"I had him on the ropes-"_

_-Bucky sinks his teeth into Steve's neck, Steve gasping under him as pleasure washes over him-_

_-"Bucky?"_

_"Who the hell is Bucky?-"_

_-"I love you, James Buchanan Barnes," Steve whispers._

_"I love you, Steven Grant Rogers," Bucky whispers back-_

_-"Thank you Buck, but I can get by on my own."_

_"The thing is, you don't have to." He reaches out to squeeze Steve's shoulder. "I'm with you till the end of the line, pal-"_  

He wakes, blinking in the dim light. His chest aches. All of a sudden he misses Steve, misses him so much it hurts. It crashes over him, the realization. He needs Steve. He  _wants_ Steve. He's ready. 

As Sam slides into his chair at breakfast Barnes takes a deep breath, steeling himself. Sam looks up.

"I want to see Steve."

***

Barnes takes a deep breath, fingers drumming anxiously on the table. He feels Steve getting nearer, heartbeat thumping in his ears and warmth pulsing in his chest.

"You good?" Sam questions from where he's leaning against the table.

Barnes nods, taking another steadying breath. He stands up as the elevator whirs upwards, stepping towards the entryway. The elevator dings, and the doors slide open.

Barnes feels the breath leave him in a rush as Steve steps through, gaze immediately trained on him. In all his memories, Steve was never so clear. His blonde hair seems softer, his eyes bluer, expression hopeful and wary all at once and Barnes  _knows_ him, he knows Steve in his soul, in the ache in his chest.

"Buck," Steve breathes, eyes scanning him up and down.

Barnes feels the corners of his lips lift slightly in a small smile. "Hey pal."

Steve exhales, eyes going wet and smile wobbling. He takes a step forward, then stops, as if not sure if he can. Barnes solves the problem by stepping forward, slow at first and then faster, until he reaches Steve and crashes into him, wrapping his arms around him tightly and burying his face in Steve's shoulder.

Steve freezes and then melts, dropping his bag and wrapping his arms around Barnes with a choked-off sob. Barnes shudders slightly at the contact but it isn't bad, it's Steve, and Steve is a part of him, is safe and good, Steve is  _home_ and Barnes clings tighter, feeling tears wet the fabric of Steve's shirt.

"God Buck," Steve chokes out, muffled in Barnes' shoulder. "I missed you."

Barnes clutches tighter wordlessly, unable to speak through the lump in his throat. 

After what seems like an eternity they finally pull back, staring at each other with equally red-rimmed eyes. 

"How are you doing?" Steve asks.

"Better," Barnes replies.

Steve smiles. "Good." He huffs a small laugh. "Sam wouldn't tell me anything."

"Confidentiality."

Steve nods. "I get it. I'm glad you're doing better." He takes a breath and looks up, seeing Sam over Barnes' shoulder and smiling. "Sam, hey."

Sam strides forward, pulling Steve in for a quick hug. "Hey man. Good to see you."

Steve claps Sam on the back. "Likewise. Thanks for...being here."

Sam nods, glancing at Barnes. "Hey, it's been interesting. And Barnes here isn't half-bad company." He shoots him a smile and Barnes scowls slightly back. Steve looks overjoyed.  "Why don't you set your stuff down and then we'll eat dinner," Sam says. "You must be hungry."

***

Barnes watches Steve shovel food in his mouth as he nurses his cup of tea, entranced by every line of Steve's face. There's a healing cut over his eye and Barnes frowns, disliking the idea of Steve being hurt. 

"So, want to fill Barnes in on everything?" Sam asks.

Steve nods, swallowing his bite. "We've been taking out Hydra bases, and right now they're hurting pretty bad. The rest of the team will finish them. We also...went to a base in Russia. The one where you were kept." He watches Barnes worriedly before continuing. "We collected evidence there and found the agents from the tapes in cryofreeze, though they...Hydra had killed them, when they knew we were coming. The rest of the team knows about you, only the surface stuff, but the government has a warrant out for you. There's nothing about you in the files Nat leaked except for implications of missions and a mention of the Winter Soldier, but there's footage from DC and the intelligence community connected the dots. I reached out to an agent of Shield I knew who works for the CIA now, and she says if we give her the evidence, she'll make sure everything is handled correctly. They won't be able to just put a kill order out on you. You'll get a lawyer, a trial, everything. Hill's on board too. She's got pull, and with Stark and I both behind this they won't be able to touch you."

Barnes considers. It's not like he has much choice. After everything he's done, he's sure there's a lot of people who want him dead. He should probably be dead. It would be safer for everyone. But he has a mission: Protect Steve. He can't leave him.

He nods. "Yeah. Do whatever you need to."

Steve sighs in relief. "Don't worry, I won't let anything happen to you. Hill says we should actually start by announcing that you're alive to the public. That way, they can't make you disappear."

"That's actually a really good plan," Sam says musingly. "I mean, everyone knows Bucky Barnes. You're nearly as famous as Cap here. People love you. There would be public outrage if anything happened to you."

Barnes looks down. "But I killed people. They'll hate me."

"No." Steve looks defiant. "They'll hate what was done to you. It wasn't your fault, and we can prove that."

Barnes exhales and presses a hand to his head before dropping it. "Okay. I don't-just...do whatever."

"Barnes..." Sam says warningly. Right, making choices. 

He scowls before taking a breath. "I...trustyou to make the right decision. Whatever that is."

Sam nods approvingly and Steve stares at him, eyes soft. "Thank you. For trusting me. I won't let you down."

Barnes shifts uncomfortably, looking away and nodding. He trusts Steve, but he's not sure it will be up to him. Barnes has killed too many people, wrought too much destruction. The world may love Bucky, but they will hate the Winter Soldier. They will hate Barnes.

***

"You're still...sleeping on the couch?" Steve questions in confusion, picking at the blanket folded over it.

Barnes nods, hunching slightly. "I don't like the bed."

"Oh." Steve nods. "I get that. Mine is always too soft."

Barnes is not concerned with softness, but he says nothing. Better to let Steve think that's the reason why. Steve sits down on the opposite end of the couch, staring at Barnes for a moment.

"So, how has....everything been going?" he asks awkwardly.

Barnes blinks. "Better."

Steve shifts uncomfortably, obviously dying to know more but not knowing how to ask or if he can. Barnes has memories of easy conversation, but right now it feels like they're miles apart.

"Did you used to...wear newspapers in your shoes?" Barnes blurts out.

Steve brightens, a smile stretching across his face. "Yeah. My shoes were always too big, so I had to stuff 'em with newspapers."

The faded memories swim up, Steve shoving his feet into overlarge shoes that made him walk funny, always scowling and slouching. Barnes feels the corners of his lips twitch up. "I remember."

Steve's face somehow brightens even further. "How much do you remember?"

"Not everything. Some. It's....confusing." Barnes rubs his temple. "Everything is all...jumbled."

Steve nods. "That's okay. It'll come back."

"Can you...talk?"

"About what?"

"Anything. Us. It helps."

Steve nods, shifting to face Barnes more fully. "Okay." He thinks for a moment. "There was this one time. We went to Coney Island and you made me ride the Cyclone..."

***

_-Natalia bites her lip. "You won't forget me, will you? Sometimes you forget things, or go away in your head. I don't like it when that happens."_

_The soldier shakes his head. "No. I will not forget you, little spider-"_

_-"Hello, little spider."_

_"Hello, Yasha."_

_She launches into his arms and he grips her tightly before setting her down. "You have grown."_

_"And you are the same-"_

_-_ _"Yasha!" she screams._   _"No! Let me go! Yasha!-"_

_-"Bucky! No!"_

_He reaches but he falls away, a scream torn from his lips-_

_-Steve falls away as the soldier clings to the beam, mind whirling and chest aching. He lets go, falling-_

_-He falls to the floor, staring ahead unseeing. Hands tug him up, voices swirling around him-_

_-A gentle hand wipes away the paint from his eyes-_

_-"I'm sorry-"_

_-Pierce cups his cheek and he leans into  it, a hand stroking his hair-_

_-A hand threads through his hair and yanks, making his eyes land on Rumlow-_

_-Hot breath tickles his ear. "Not a word-"_

_-"Wipe him, and start over-"_

_-The metal clamps around his face and he screams-_

He wakes with a jerk, breathing heavily. He sits up, hands digging into his thighs as he takes a deep breath. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. He trembles and breathes, looking around. Five things he can see. The new coffee table. A leftover mug of tea. The windows and the city outside. The blanket over him. The couch. He breathes in for four, holds for seven, exhales for eight seconds. Four things he can feel. The blanket over him. The couch under him. His hands on his legs. The ache of the metal shoulder. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. Three things he can hear. Sam breathing. Steve getting up. The city outside. He breathes. Two things he can smell. Steve and Sam. He breathes. One thing he can taste. The chamomile tea he drank last night. He breathes. He curls into the couch again, knees drawn up and a hand curved on his forehead over his eyes.

Steve's footsteps approach quietly and he shuffles into view, eyes worried. He sits tentatively on the other end of the couch, illuminated by the faint light of the city through the windows. 

"You okay?" he asks softly.

Barnes stays silent. He doesn't have an answer. 

Steve exhales slightly. "Okay, maybe that was a stupid question."

Barnes looks up, studying Steve. "Can't sleep either?"

Steve shrugs. "Not really. And I heard you wake up. I'm a light sleeper."

Barnes nods. "Sorry."

"It's not your fault." There's a moment of silence.

Barnes takes a breath before getting up, tentatively settling back down next to Steve only a foot apart and wrapping the blanket around himself. He shakes his head slightly to dislodge a piece of hair in his face. Steve's hand moves to brush it away and he flinches, making Steve freeze and look stricken.

"I'm sorry-"

Barnes shakes his head, breathing shakily. "It's not you. I just...can't. No touching."

Steve drops his hand slowly, looking sad. "The hug...?"

"It's...better, if I do it. But don't-it was one time. I can't...again."

Steve nods, though he still looks sad. "Okay."

Barnes takes a breath. "Can I...If you stay still..."

"I won't move. Promise." Steve drops his hands to his lap and sits still, waiting for Barnes to make the first move. Barnes takes another breath and then leans to the right, pressing their shoulders together. This is his choice. He is not trapped. Steve won't move. Steve is warm and solid underneath him, heartbeat echoing in Barnes' ears steadily and body relaxed and unmoving. Barnes exhales shakily, letting his head drop to Steve's shoulder and inhaling his scent, familiar and comforting. _Safe._ He is safe. 

He feels Steve let out a breath, relaxing under him. It has been so long since Barnes has touched someone, has had contact that doesn't hurt, and part of him desperately yearns for it while another part trembles in fear and revulsion. He's shaking slightly, fear and need warring within him as he presses against Steve's side, head pillowed on his comfortable shoulder that rises and falls with Steve's breaths. Steve doesn't move a muscle, breathing steadily and letting Barnes have complete control. He is in control. He slips a shaking hand out from the blankets and finds Steve's, lacing their fingers together and gripping tightly, resting their joined hands on Steve's thigh. His eyes slip closed and he focuses on matching his breathing to Steve's, relaxing into the familiar sensation of having Steve against him. He remembers nights like this during the war, Bucky sprawled over Steve with head over his heart, warm and comfortable, and he finds himself sinking into sleep as exhaustion washes over him.

***

He wakes slowly, a warm weight under his head and pressed to his side. He blinks, light meeting his eyes and memories flooding back of last night as he shifts slightly, raising his head off of Steve's shoulder. Steve is already awake, and turns his head slightly to see Barnes.

"Morning."

"Morning," Barnes rasps, disentangling his hand from Steve's to rub his eyes. He yawns, blinking rapidly. He can't remember sleeping so well since his first few days after DC. He hadn't even dreamt. "What time is it?" he asks, taking in the sunlight flooding through the windows.

"Eight."

Barnes stares at Steve. "Eight?" He's never slept this late. "How long have you been up?"

Steve smiles slightly. "A couple hours. You looked so peaceful, I figured I'd let you sleep."

Barnes blinks. "Thanks." He looks around. "Where's Sam?"

"He's visiting some family  in the area. He'll be back."

Barnes nods. "You must be hungry."

"A little."

Barnes huffs, getting up and stretching, his back popping loudly. "Don't starve on my account." He leads the way to the kitchen, starting the coffee maker as Steve gets out eggs and cracks them into a pan. Barnes taps his fingers against the counter nervously. "So, when is...everything happening?"

Steve grimaces. "As soon as possible, ideally. Tony and I are going to give a press conference saying you're alive, and then we'll hand over all our evidence to Sharon. That's the Shield agent. Nat-Natasha Romanoff-knows her. Nat also said she was coming here, if that's okay with you."

"Yeah." He remembers Natalia now, has memories of their days in the Red Room. He also remembers shooting her. Twice. He's not sure how she'll react to seeing him again.

"We won't tell anyone where you are, just that you are-were the Winter Soldier, and you're alive. The CIA might guess that you're here, but we won't say anything until we know they're going to treat you fairly. We won't let anything happen to you."

Barnes nods. He's not sure Steve will have a choice, but he'll humor him as long as possible.

Steve turns off the stove and brings his plate to the table as Barnes pours two cups of coffee and sits across from him, sliding one over.

"You drink coffee?" Steve questions. 

Barnes nods. "I like it."

Steve smiles, eyes sparkling. "I'm uh-" He clears his throat. "I'm glad. That's great."

Barnes narrows his eyes. "It's just coffee."

"Yeah, no, I'm, uh, I'm glad you...like things, now. You know." Steve looks down awkwardly.

"Oh." Barnes swallows. When Steve last saw him, Barnes didn't believe he had any wants or autonomy. Now he is...better, though it is still hard sometimes. Sam helps. 

"So, what have you been doing to, you know, pass the time?" Steve asks quickly, thankfully breaking the awkward silence.

"Reading. Did I read the Hobbit before?"

Steve nods. "Yeah. You loved it."

He thought so. "I read it in your apartment. And your other books."

"Oh." Steve looks surprised. "I didn't know that."

Barnes nods. "Sam told me there were more books. I read the whole series and then we watched the movies. Then it was Harry Potter." He pauses. "I also go to Tony's workshop and build things. I helped him with Sam's wings. And Sam showed me the training floor. I...broke a couple punching bags."

Steve gives him a wry smile. "I've done that too."

"Sam says it's better than breaking the apartment." Barnes looks down. "Tony helped fix everything. The coffee table is new. And the mirror."

Steve just nods understandingly. 

"I killed Tony's parents," Barnes blurts out.

Steve freezes slightly, watching Barnes warily. "I wasn't sure. Does-does Tony know?"

Barnes nods, looking away from Steve's gaze. "He figured it out before I remembered. He doesn't....hate me."

"It wasn't you," Steve says softly. "He knows that. You didn't have a choice."

"I know." Barnes repeats what he'd said to Tony, looking back up at Steve. "But I did it."

Steve's jaw tightens and his eyes fill with sadness but there is no condemnation in his gaze as he looks at Barnes. It is the same way he'd looked at him as Barnes' fist bloodied his face, sad and resigned but without hatred, without blame. Understanding. Barnes looks away, unable to bear the weight of it. 

***

They end up on the couch, sitting across from one another as Steve tells him stories about their life. Around noon Steve grabs more food and Sam returns, followed by Tony and Maria Hill a little while later. They cluster around the table to make a plan, Hill still watching Barnes warily.

"Okay," Steve says. "So what exactly do we want to say?" 

"Maybe start with the Winter Soldier?" Hill suggests. "Say you have an identity, then reveal it's Barnes."

"But we gotta make sure it's clear that he's not at fault," Sam points out. "Also, I'm just wondering, how the hell are we gonna deal with the vampire thing? Because I know our government, and once they get the evidence and find that out they're going to use it to say Barnes has no rights so they can study him."

Barnes flinches slightly, looking down. He knows that is what will happen. It's what happened with the Russians. He'll never be free. There's a moment of silence as they all digest this, and Barnes can tell they haven't thought about it before.

"I won't let that happen," Steve says firmly. "Whatever it takes."

Tony nods. "They'll have to go through me, too, and I don't think they want to do that. The government and I have a nice little peace treaty. They don't come after me, I don't destroy them. They go after me and Captain America, plus the other Avengers too, probably, and they know they're toast. The public would riot."

"So do we tell the public he's a vampire?" Steve questions.

Hill muses. "Maybe not explicitly. Talk about experimentation, enhancement. Otherwise no one will believe it's him. No one could survive cryofreeze without being enhanced."

Steve looks at Barnes. "Are you okay with that?"

Barnes nods. 

"Alright, then that's what we'll do. We'll say prior...experimentation during the war helped you survive the fall, and Hydra found you and brainwashed you."

Barnes shakes his head. "Hydra didn't find me. The Russians did."

Steve frowns. "But I thought they were Hydra. Zola was there."

"They...reached out to Hydra, after they figured out what I was. They knew Zola made me. After the Americans recruited him he came over, along with Dr. Fenhoff, in 1954. Then Karpov was Hydra, and then they gave me to the Americans. But the Russians...if I hadn't been a vampire, they would have taken me to you. They would've rescued me, instead of..." He trails off, looking down at the table. "They just wanted to study me, at first. But they couldn't make more, so they decided to use me. Put me in cryofreeze until Zola and Fenhoff could work on me. I did missions for the KGB."

"Oh." Steve swallows. "I didn't know. When the tapes start Zola and Dr. Fenhoff are already there, and some of the sound is missing. There's also no tapes from after 1973 until 1991."

"The sound was for the words," Barnes guesses. "They didn't want the Americans to have them."

"Yeah."

He searches his memory. "Did you find it? At the base. The red book."

Steve shakes his head. "No. It might be gone by now."

For some reason Barnes doesn't think so. They'd never destroy something so valuable. It contains everything, all the information about him, his trigger words, how to use the chair. Whoever has it can still control him.

"I was in the Red Room from 1980 to 1988," he adds. 

"The Red Room?"

"KGB program." He shuts his mouth with a click. This is not his secret to tell. He switches topics abruptly. "Just say Hydra found me," he says, resigned. "It's easier."

"He's right." Hill sighs. "We'd cause an international stir if we blamed the Russians for everything. People would be suspicious of why Russian soldiers, who were our Allies, would capture an American soldier, which would lead back to the whole vampire thing. Best to just say Hydra is evil. Everyone can understand that."

"Alright." Steve nods. "We're all agreed on how to proceed?" He looks around the table, eyes landing on Barnes.

The others nod and after a moment Barnes does as well. Steve looks relieved.

"Okay. Let's get started."

 


	9. Chapter 9

Barnes sits on the couch next to Sam, anxiously watching the tv. The screen shows the front of Avengers Tower, right below them, where a podium has been set up and reporters are clustered around. Suddenly the doors open and Steve and Tony emerge, the buzz of voices dying down as they step up to the podium.

"Good morning," Steve says. "I'm sure you're all wondering why we've called you here. You're probably wondering why you haven't heard from me since DC, six weeks ago. Well, I'm here to tell you that I know the identity of the Winter Soldier. You know him as the assassin from DC, the one with the metal arm. I know him differently. I know that this will come as a shock to all of you, that you'll find it hard to believe. It was a shock to me. I didn't want to believe it, but it's true. The Winter Soldier..." Steve takes a breath. "Is James Barnes."

There's shocked murmuring from the crowd. Steve forges ahead.

"Yes, you heard that right. Sergeant James Barnes. My best friend, Bucky. He was experimented on during the war by Arnim Zola. Whatever was done to him helped him survive when he fell into a ravine and was declared killed in action. Hydra found him, and turned him into the Winter Soldier by using memory wiping, torture, mind control, and brainwashing. He was kept in cryogenic stasis between missions, for seventy years." Steve surveys the crowd. "He is in no way responsible for his actions, and I will do whatever it takes to help him."

"I second that," Tony adds. "I am offering all my resources to help Barnes and rehabilitate him as well as analyze evidence and provide legal support. Captain Rogers and I will be turning over the evidence we have collected to the CIA on the condition that Barnes gets fair treatment, including a lawyer and a trial. I have personally gone through the evidence and I can say unequivocally that Barnes is a victim and bears no responsibility for the Winter Soldier's crimes. For anyone who's read the leaked files and is speculating, I want to set something straight. Yes, the Winter Soldier killed my parents. Yes, I know that. No, I do not blame Barnes. We clear? Yes? Good. Questions, anyone?"

All hands go up. Steve points to one at random.

"Captain Rogers, do you know where Barnes is now?"

"I cannot say."

Good, Barnes thinks. Intentionally vague. Like maybe he doesn't actually know. 

"Mr. Stark. Regardless of his former identity, the Winter Soldier is dangerous," one reporter says. "How do you plan to ensure the public's safety?"

"Measures are in place," Tony replies. "Rest assured, there's no danger right now."

More hands go up.

"Does that mean that you have him in custody?"

"No comment."

The murmur of the crowd tells Barnes that there's rampant speculation going on. He only hopes they don't guess he's in the Tower, right above their heads.

"Captain Rogers, what makes you think you can rehabilitate him? Is the Winter Soldier irredeemable, or is Sergeant Barnes still in there?"

Steve's jaw tightens. "Yes, he's in there. He saved my life in DC. His memory was wiped but it will come back."

"Why did he save your life? He had no problem killing dozens of others. Shield agents died, Captain Rogers, along with many others. We don't even know the full extent of the assassinations he was responsible for over the years."

Steve's eyes glint. "I'm perfectly aware of that. I'm not minimizing what the Winter Soldier has done. I'm not sure even he knows why he saved my life. I attempted to get through to him on the Helicarrier, and what I said to him must have made him question his orders to kill me."

Barnes is surprised that Steve seems almost to understand what had happened. He still truly doesn't know why he pulled Steve out of the river, only that something was wrong, and he knew he was supposed to protect Steve. 

"Captain Rogers, do you think your connection to Barnes may make you unable to be objective?"

"Of course I'm not fully objective, but there's no reason to be. It's clear that he wasn't responsible for his actions, and fought back against Hydra whenever possible. He deserves help, not condemnation."

"Mr. Stark, a similar question. Why would you decide to help Barnes when he killed your parents? Are you able to be objective?"

Tony raises an eyebrow. "I'm helping him because I like to think I'm a halfway decent human being. What was done to him is unspeakable. I literally said it a minute ago, were you listening? Barnes didn't kill my parents, Hydra did. I don't blame him. And am I able to be objective? Hell no. If someone wants Barnes, they'll have to go through me. I dare anyone to try." Tony glares out over the crowd, challenging. Barnes feels something warm settle in his stomach.

"Any other questions?" Steve asks.

There's a murmur from the crowd. Steve nods.

"Thank you for your time." Then he and Tony turn, disappearing back into the tower. Sam turns to Barnes.

"So. That's over. It actually went pretty well."

"Yeah." He sighs, suddenly worn out. "That was the easy part."

***

Steve collapses on the couch, huffing out a breath. Barnes watches him worriedly, scanning his face for clues as he mutes the tv.

"What happened?" he asks.

Steve looks over, giving him a small smile. "Everything went okay. Sharon came to the tower with a team and we turned over all the evidence and the techs. There's still an arrest warrant out for you, but we never said we knew where you were so they won't be able get you. I think Sharon knows that you're here, or that we at least know where you are, but she's maintaining plausible deniability. As soon as we know they're going to give you a fair trial we'll let them know you're in our custody, but we're not budging on them taking you. You'll stay here no matter what. As Tony said, they'll have to go through us first to get to you."

Barnes nods. "They're talking about it. On the tv."

"What are they saying?"

Barnes frowns. "It's...most of them agree with you, but some..." He looks down. "They want me locked up, or killed. I don't think they're wrong."

"Of course they're wrong," Steve says firmly. "You deserve justice."

"I'm dangerous."

Steve clenches his jaw. "So am I."

"It's not the same. You're...you."

"What does that mean?"

"You...you're good. You do good things. You don't kill people."

"I've killed plenty of people, Buck."

Barnes sighs. "Bad people. And not in cold blood. And you're...in control. If Hydra got me again I'd go right back to killing. I'm dangerous."

Steve shakes his head, eyes glinting resolutely. "I can't accept that. If Hydra got me, they'd do the same thing. Trying to stop things before they happen never works out. Giving up just because something  _might_ happen? That's no way to live. Any number of bad things could happen, but in the end all we can do is our best. We keep fighting."

Barnes stares at him, feeling his lip twitch up. "You always were good at speeches." Steve huffs, softening again. Barnes cocks his head. "People always underestimate you, don't they?"

Steve looks surprised. "I guess."

"Everything I read about Captain America...it's all wrong. It's not you, not everything." Barnes thinks. "People think you're just this figure, this symbol, but that's not it.  They think you're just good at fighting, that what makes you special is being strong, but that's just...not right. You were small, before the serum, but you still fought, from what I can remember. You knew you'd never beat anyone with strength, so you used strategy. You were smart. Stupid as hell, but smart. You never backed down from a fight. That's what made you, you. And when you got bigger...you were strong, but you were still smart. You were the same person, but with an enhanced brain and body and tactical training. You didn't just punch people. You outsmarted them. You-you _are_ just as dangerous as me, if you wanted to be. More so even, I think. I think you'd beat me in a fight, eventually, because of who you are. You see people coming two moves ahead. You understand people, and you trust them, and you always expect the best of them, but are willing to take the blows when they let you down. You're not this...dumb super-soldier who always follows the rules. You do what's right, and damn everything else. That's what makes you special." The words are pouring from his lips now, coming from the spark deep inside him where  _Bucky_ still lives, who knows Steve inside and out. "Captain America is nothing without Steve Rogers. My memory is shit, but I know that you always had that inside you. Your moral compass has never wavered one bit. Everyone could be telling you one thing, the whole world could be telling you to move, and you'd just look them in the eye and say  _no, you move._ You were Bucky's hero long before you were the world's, I know that much. He'd have done anything for you." He stops, breathing raggedly, head pounding.

Steve looks stunned. "Bucky..." he breathes. Suddenly he frowns. "Wait, what do you mean  _he?_ You're Bucky."

Barnes shifts uncomfortably. "Sure. Whatever."

Steve narrows his eyes. "You don't think you're Bucky."

"I don't-" Barnes pinches the bridge of his nose. "No, I'm not Bucky. Happy? I'm not him, I'll never be him, you can give up now because it's never gonna happen, pal. He's dead." His voice turns vicious, something like anger and hurt pulsing in his chest. "It's just me. You can-you can stop pretending to care about me, because I'm not  _him._ You can't bring him back." He glares at Steve, pushing the hurt into anger. There, now Steve knows. Now he will leave, will realize how damaged Barnes is.

Steve tips his chin up, meeting Barnes' eyes defiantly. "You're trying to make me angry, to hurt me. Well, it won't work. I don't care. The person I was died when I went into the ice. No one stays the same. That's life. I don't give a  _fuck_ who you are now, but you're Bucky. You can't escape that. And if you want me to stop caring about you, to give up, you're gonna have to kill me. Didn't I just tell you that I. Don't. Give. Up." Steve glares. "Stop lying to yourself, and stop lying to me. I know you, Buck, better than you know yourself right now-" Barnes flinches-"and I can tell when you're bullshitting me. You've told yourself you're not Bucky so much you've started to believe it, you've put up these walls to protect yourself, and you're trying to push me away but guess what? That's  _exactly_ what Bucky would do."

Barnes stands up abruptly, brimming with anger as he glares at Steve. "What if I don't  _want_ to be Bucky? What then, huh? Are you gonna take that away from me, too? You're just like them, Rogers, trying to make me something I'm not!" He's yelling, breaths coming fast and hands balled into fists. 

Steve stands up, going toe to toe with Barnes. "That's not true and you know it! I know exactly what you're doing, Bucky! You're pushing me away. You think if you can get me to hate you, you can protect yourself. You think it'll be easier, somehow. Well it's not going to work!" He takes a step closer, into Barnes' space. "I  _know_ you."

The metal arm whirs. "No you don't!" _Bucky_ screams. "You don't know a goddamn thing about me, Rogers! You don't know what I've been through, what I've done! _Years,_ Stevie. They had me for  _years,_ and you were  _frozen._ You were  _dead._ You have no  _fucking_ idea! You  _died!_ I felt you die! I waited-" His voice cracks. "I waited, I told myself you were coming, that you'd rescue me, but you didn't, and I had to feel you die! I needed you! I needed you and you  _left_ me!" A sob tears from his chest.

Steve looks like he's been slapped, guilt and anguish written on his features. "Buck..."

_Bucky_ crumbles, anger washing away to be replaced by crushing sadness and hurt. He's shaking, nails biting into his palm and breaths coming in ragged sobs, tears starting to slip down his face. "You  _died,"_ he repeats brokenly. "I felt you die. And I died too."

"I'm sorry," Steve whispers. "I'm so sorry. I thought you were dead. They _told_ me you were dead. I put the plane down and I thought-I thought I'd see you again. I was selfish. I should have-I should've done something, should've looked for you, should've swam out of that plane and lived-"

Bucky shakes his head, realizing he hadn't meant it. He doesn't blame Steve at all. "No. It wasn't your fault."

"But it  _was._ If I'd...if I'd held on, if I'd reached a little bit further, if I'd jumped after you-"

Bucky looks up. "You-what the hell? Jump after me? Are you insane? You would've died."

"You didn't. I might've survived."

"And what then? Then the Soviets find both of us, and there's two Winter Soldiers. That's...the stupidest thing I've ever heard, Steve. And you-" Bucky blinks. "You could've swam out of the plane? You...wanted to die?"

Steve flinches. "I-no, I don't-I didn't...I wasn't trying to..." He swallows and blinks, mouth trembling. "I wasn't trying to...." He expression crumples slightly as he tries to hold onto his denial. "I wasn't....I wasn't...I couldn't live without you," he whispers brokenly. "I just couldn't."

Realization dawns and Bucky grabs Steve by the shoulders and shakes him, hard, making Steve look at him. "Don't you ever,  _ever_ do that again, you hear me? Don't you _fucking_ do that again, Steven Grant Rogers." He's trembling, hands gripping Steve's shoulders hard enough to bruise. "Don't you leave me again."

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," Steve chokes out, and then crumples forwards as Bucky wraps his arms around him, holding tight. He feels Steve shake with quiet sobs against him and runs a hand up and down his back the way he remembers from before.

"Jesus Christ, Stevie," he murmurs. "How long you been holding that in?"

Steve sobs and grips him tighter, curling into Bucky as if he is small and fragile again and Bucky is the strong one; as if they are back in Brooklyn, young and innocent, and nothing exists except for them. 

***

Bucky finally pulls back, cupping Steve's face and wiping tears away from under Steve's eye with his thumb.

"How long has is been since you've cried?" he asks softly. "I mean,  _actually_ cried?"

Steve looks down. "Not since you died. I've always been better at punching things than feeling."

Bucky snorts. "That's for sure. You know it's okay to, right? This isn't the 40s. That's what Sam always tells me. I think I've cried more in this century than in my whole damn life."

Steve nods, taking a breath. "Yeah. It's...hard. Back then...if you weren't completely fine, there was something wrong with you. Guys were weak for having shell-shock, or anything like that. I guess...growing up sick, I always had to prove my worth. When I woke up, I knew I wasn't okay, but I thought if I didn't think about it, if I pretended to be okay, maybe it'd go away. It wasn't until I met Sam that I started to realize maybe it was okay to feel this way, that it was normal. That maybe I had PTSD too, and it wasn't something to be ashamed of. I, uh, I read about stuff, while I was gone. When I was fighting Hydra. I read about trauma, and PTSD, and depression, and everything I could get my hands on. I realized I've been a bit of an asshole. Had a lot of prejudice against people who were struggling with mental illness, including myself. I think it's good I left. I probably would have been terrible for your recovery. I kept expecting you to just...be yourself again. To bounce back. I didn't understand panic attacks, or dissociation, or depersonalization, or anything like that. I still don't, not really, but I'm willing to learn."

Bucky's thumb strokes Steve's cheekbone. "And that's what makes you special. You're willing to change. You take into account all of the information before making a decision, and you make sure it's right, and then you stick to it no matter what."

Steve chuckles slightly. "You always did know me best."

"Yeah." Bucky takes a breath. "Yeah, I do. Because I-I am Bucky. You're right. I'm not the same person I was, but I can't just erase that part of me. That makes me the same as Hydra. But I can't erase the Winter Soldier either. I'm something in between. Something new. But I'm still Bucky."

Steve smiles. "I know." He raises an eyebrow. "I told you so."

Bucky sighs and feels his lips twitch. "You're a punk."

"Jerk."

Bucky's hand is still cupping Steve's cheek, their faces inches apart. Bucky's eyes flick down to Steve's lips and then back up, and Steve mirrors the motion. Slowly, carefully, Bucky leans in, pressing his lips to Steve's in the softest of kisses. Steve doesn't move, letting him take control, and Bucky only lets their lips touch for a fleeting instant before pulling back, hands dropping to his sides.

"We're both pretty fucked up, huh?" Bucky says softly.

"Yeah." Steve sighs. "I know we're not both going to magically get better just because we talked. I get that now. But I think this is a-what does Sam call it-a step in the right direction."

"Recovery is a process," Bucky says, quoting Sam. 

Steve chuckles. "Thank god for Sam Wilson. We'd both be lost otherwise." He frowns. "Where is he, anyway?"

"Apparently Tony's friend, uh-Rhodey?-stopped by to chew Tony out for not telling him about the press conference and about me. Sam's a big fan."

"Ah."

"Come on." Bucky shoves Steve gently towards the couch. Steve sits down and Bucky bends down to grab his ankles, manhandling his legs lengthwise on the couch and sitting down by his feet. He undoes Steve's shoes and tugs them off, dropping them next to the couch. "You remember when your feet got cold?" he questions. 

Steve's face immediately smoothes in understanding and he shoves his feet under Bucky's thighs as Bucky wraps a hand around his ankle, thumb rubbing over it. This contact he can do. He sighs, relaxing into the cushions as exhaustion washes over him. Steve looks similarly drained, eyes red and puffy and body still hunched as if he's trying to make himself small again. He looks like  _Steve,_ the Steve Bucky knew and loved, who he protected with everything he had. Bucky has forgotten, in his own turmoil, that Steve is hurting too. For all he tries to be Atlas, he cannot bear the weight of the world. He is  _human._ Right now he is not Captain America, or even the Steve Rogers who everyone thinks they know. He is Steve,  _Bucky's_ Steve, and Bucky can do no less than love him with everything he is, with every scrap of his broken body and mind, because he is Bucky Barnes, and that is what he does.

***

Sam sits down on the armchair, looking over at them with a small smile. Bucky sets down his book. 

"Hey."

"Hey yourself. You guys look comfortable."

Steve's feet are still shoved under Bucky's thigh, sketchbook in hand and blanket draped over both of them. Steve smiles slightly.

"Yeah. How was it?"

"Seeing Colonel Rhodes? Incredible, man. He's my hero."

"Not me?" Steve asks impishly.

Sam laughs. "Fuck off, Rogers. No, he was great. I actually got to shake his hand. Really nice guy. Did yell at Tony though for not telling him about any of this. He seems to get yelled at a lot. First Romanoff, when he found out what she is, then Rhodes, and then Pepper Potts called to yell at him some more for not telling her."

 "Seems about right," Steve says. "Peggy yelled at me when I finally called her after DC. Said I should have called her immediately." He looks over at Bucky. "And I, uh, I told her you're alive. She said she knew, but she was never able to find you, and in the end she thought maybe she'd just imagined it. She apologized. For not looking harder."

Bucky shakes his head. "They would have killed her." He hesitates. "I want to see her. But....I don't know if I'll be able to, with everything."

Steve nods. "At least not right now. You could still talk to her, though. Call her."

"Yeah. And I...they probably won't want to see me, but...do I-do I have any family?"

"Oh." Steve gives him a pained smile. "Yeah. I never....reached out, except once, after I woke up. Um, Becca is still alive, and she's got grandchildren now. I think even great-grandchildren."

Bucky stares. "Becca's...alive?" he whispers. "Oh God. Does she-does she know I'm alive?"

"Probably, if she saw the news."

He puts a hand over his face. "Oh God."

"Do you...want to talk to her? I'm sure I could find a way."

Bucky shakes his head. "No-no, I can't, she won't-she won't recognize me. I don't want her-" His voice breaks. "She's my little sister. I can't-I can't do that to her."

"Buck," Steve says softly. "I'm sure she'd want to see you. She wouldn't care."

Bucky takes a ragged breath. "I promised. I promised her I'd come home, and I didn't. I can't even-I can't remember the last time I saw her. I can't even remember her face. It's all...blurred."

"She looked like you. She was two years younger, but everyone said you were like twins. You did everything together. You wrote her as often as you could during the war."

Bucky looks up. "My letters. What happened to my letters? The ones from her and Ma?"

Steve looks sad and guilty. "I don't know. They were in your pack when you....everything was sent back to your family."

A thought strikes and he squints at Steve. "What happened to your stuff? You didn't have any...next of kin, 'sides me, and well...I was gone."

Steve shrugs. "It all went to museums. Some of it was displayed, some wasn't. I got a lot back after I woke up, the important stuff I didn't....I didn't want anyone to see, but a lot of it is still out there."

Bucky's hand goes to his chest. "There was....a drawing? You gave it to me."

Steve nods. "For your birthday."

Bucky lets his hand drop. "They must have taken it. And my dog tags."

Steve's face contorts in pain. 

"What?" Bucky questions. 

Steve swallows, guilt written in every line of his face. "They gave them to me, when they told us you were dead. They had your dog tags, and I thought....I thought it was proof you were dead, but they must have-they must have taken them off you...he-" Steve's face goes hard. "Lukin. He looked me in the eye, and he told me you were dead. That son of a bitch, he  _knew._ He knew you were alive, he was holding you prisoner, and he  _looked me in the eye_ and told me you were dead." He reaches down the collar of his shirt and withdraws a silver chain, familiar tags dangling from the end as he holds them up. "I kept them." He pulls the chain over his head and holds them out. "Here. You should have them back."

Bucky accepts the tags, running his thumb over the etching. 

_JAMES B BARNES_

_32557038 T42 -43 B_

_MR G M BARNES_

_160 STATE ST_

_NEW YORK NY        P_

"Protestant," he murmurs. "Wasn't there something....something else..."

"Your Ma was Jewish," Steve says softly. "Your Dad was Protestant. But it wasn't common knowledge, and with the war....you never told anyone."

"Oh." He swallows, still fingering the etching. "And...the museum says I enlisted, but...I don't-that doesn't seem right. I don't know."

Steve shakes his head. "You didn't. You were drafted. I guess, well, it looked better to say you enlisted in the museum. More patriotic. God knows half the stuff about me is wrong."

"People always underestimate you," Bucky repeats. "Everything is just...it's bullshit. All the history books, the museums." He clenches his fist around the tags, anger sparking. "This goddamn country. We're just as bad as anyone else, and all we try to do is cover it up. I remember the shit Jim used to get. I remember-I remember Jim told me they had his family in camps back home, while he was fighting and bleeding for his country. And what they'd yell at Gabe...it wasn't right. I punched a few of them, you did too I think. But he'd tell me how things were for him back home in Georgia, how even the law was against him, how his little sister couldn't go to school with everyone else, and I just....it ain't right. And everyone looked down on you for being Irish, cause your Ma was an immigrant, and I don't remember but I'm damn sure my Ma got shit too, if anyone knew. We didn't have the camps like the Germans, but we sure as hell didn't like Jews. You know where Hydra went first, after the war? America. Hydra started as German, but it sure as hell is American now. And I'll tell you, whatever the Russians did to me, they were better than the Americans. Captain America? It's what America  _should_ be, but it sure as hell isn't how it is." 

There's a moment of silence. 

"Wow," Sam says. "I think you're my new hero."

"You're right," Steve says. "Things are better today, but they're still not good. Immigrants are treated worse than ever, except it's not the Irish and Poles anymore. It's Mexicans now, and people from the Middle East, and anyone who isn't white. Racism is still a thing. Police brutality. Women still aren't equal. Gay marriage is legal now, but people are still being killed for being gay and discriminated against. Kids are thrown out of their homes. We've done terrible things in Afghanistan and Iraq. Vietnam was horrible. We've come a long way, sure, but there's still a long ways to go."

"This is...amazing," Sam says. "You're telling me Captain America and Bucky Barnes, two of the most beloved figures in history, emblems of American patriotism and conservatism, are secretly super liberal?"

Steve snorts. "Secretly? I've been fighting against this shit my entire life. I was the disabled, queer son of an single Irish Catholic immigrant mother, during the Depression, living in Brooklyn. You know how many times I got arrested?"

"I don't remember how many times I had to bail you out, and I don't think it's just my shit memory," Bucky adds. "Steve was always getting into fights, too, over something. Usually because some mook was being disrespectful to a dame, or calling someone queer, or saying some racist shit."

Sam still looks flabbergasted. "All my life, everyone held up Captain America as super conservative. When you came out of the ice, people said we were gonna return to conservative values, "family values" and that kinda stuff. All the Fox News people said you'd be horrified at gay marriage, or having a black president, or abortion, or anything like that."

Bucky finds himself doubling over with laughter, the first time he's really laughed since he can remember. "The idea.." he wheezes. "That you...oh my god..."

Steve starts to laugh too, tears slipping from his eyes as he holds his chest, and the laughter infects Sam as well. They gasp and wheeze, shaking with laughter, something horribly sad yet cathartic about it. Finally the laughter subsides as Steve wipes his eyes, smiling at Bucky.

"Thank you," he says.

Bucky frowns. "What for?"

"No one else besides Peggy seems to actually remember or know who I was. They've all got this idea of me. I guess it's been a while since I've been reminded of who I am."

Bucky smiles back slightly, slipping the dog tags over his head to settle around his neck. "Well, someone has to. Can't have them all thinking you're something you're not." He pauses for effect. "I don't know where they got the idea you're this great hero. You're just a dumb punk."

Steve laughs, then sobers, looking at Bucky adoringly. "Yes, but I'm your dumb punk."

"God help me."

Sam stands up. "Nope, this is too sappy. I'm leaving now. Goodbye. You guys are amazing, though. Honestly, thank you. This is everything I wanted when I was a kid. Steve, I would give anything for you to tell Fox News what you really think."

Steve blinks. "You know what, I should."

"Oh my god." Sam starts to walk away. "I fucking love you."

***

Bucky wakes gasping, dream still vivid in his mind as he sits up. He hears footsteps and Steve appears, watching Bucky worriedly. 

"You okay?"

"No," Bucky snaps. 

Steve looks lost, standing awkwardly as if unsure what to do. Bucky ignores him, focusing on breathing. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight.

"Buck-"

Bucky stops him with a hand. Five things he can see. Steve, the coffee table, the tv, the blanket, the city outside. He breathes. Four things he can feel. The blanket over him, his feet on the floor, the ache of the metal shoulder, hunger. He breathes. Three things he can hear. Steve's breathing, his heartbeat, the city outside. He breathes. Two things he can smell. Steve, his own shampoo. He breathes. One thing he can taste. Tea he drank. He breathes and nods, patting the couch next to him.

Steve sits down carefully, making sure there's distance between them. Bucky draws his legs up, wrapping the blanket tighter around himself and dropping his head onto his knees as he keeps breathing evenly, heart rate slowing but body still wracked with occasional tremors. He squeezes his eyes shut against the images in his head, hands fisted in the blanket.

"You want to talk about it?" Steve asks softly, hesitantly.

"No," he says, muffled against his knees.

Steve falls silent. Bucky breathes and trembles. 

After several long minutes Bucky finally relaxes slightly, heart rate even and slow. He uncurls slightly, sitting back and bringing up a hand to his head.

"I'll need to feed soon," he rasps, going for nonchalant. "It's been a week."

If Steve is thrown by the sudden topic change, he doesn't show it. "Want to do it now?"

"Sure."

"Here." Steve holds out his wrist across his body. Bucky takes it, swallowing. He starts to raise it but stops, revulsion skittering down his spine. This is how Rumlow fed him, how Pierce fed him. He drops Steve's wrist like it burns.

"Bucky, what's wrong?"

He shakes his head, breath hitching. "I just-I can't. It's how....it's how..."

"We don't have to do it that way. What about my neck?"

Bucky pauses. He hasn't fed from someone's neck since...since Steve. Steve is the only one. He nods. "But I can't....contact..."

Steve gets up, extending a hand. "Come on. Try it this way. I won't move."

Bucky takes his hand, letting himself be pulled to his feet. Steve drops his hand and stays still, not moving a muscle as Bucky steps forwards into his space. Bucky takes a deep breath, his right hand moving to grip Steve's left wrist that hands at his side. He brings it up, sliding his hand down his wrist to lace their fingers together between them. He's standing inches away from Steve, faces almost touching, and his eyes flick down to Steve's lips.

"Can I...?" he asks.

Steve nods slightly. Bucky leans in, pressing his lips to Steve's as he grips his hand tightly, the sensation overwhelming but familiar. He hasn't kissed anyone since Steve, and is grateful that this, at least, is something Rumlow didn't take from him. He can still kiss Steve. He breaks the kiss and moves down, pressing soft kisses into the skin of Steve's neck before mouthing over his pulse point. He squeezes Steve's hand twice, a warning, before his fangs come down and he sinks them into Steve's neck, warm blood filling his mouth. Pleasure washes through him, the taste of Steve unlike anything else, golden and pure and full of life. It is nothing like Rumlow or Pierce. They tasted bitter, wrong, something in him repulsed. Steve tastes  _right._ He tastes like home.

He hears Steve let out a breathy sigh, head tipping back slightly to give him more access. He drinks until he's satiated and then pulls back, licking over the wound with care before retracing his path back up Steve's neck and jaw to his mouth, feeling heady and drunk with sensation, everything suffused with Steve. They kiss slowly, languidly, never venturing beyond closed-mouth kisses, dry and chaste, Bucky still keeping an inch of space between their bodies. Finally he breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against Steve's and letting their entwined hands sway between them, eyes closed. They stay that way for a few minutes, breathing in each other's presence, before Bucky finally pulls back, opening his eyes to meet Steve's. Steve studies him, eyes blue and familiar.

"You okay?" he murmurs.

Bucky nods. "I forgot," he says softly. "What that was like."

"Well you don't have to, ever again," Steve replies. "I'm right here, and I'm not leaving."

"I know. But...for how long? Steve, I-they're not going to let me go. If it's not Hydra, it's the government."

"I won't let them take you."

"You won't have a choice. Steve, they'll-if you try and fight, they'll take you too."

"I don't care."

"No." Bucky takes a step back. "No, don't you dare-I can't-I don't want you to go down for me. Please. I can't-I can't lose you again. I need to know you're safe."

Steve's jaw tightens. "Well I can't lose you again either. If they take you, they'll have to take me too. I'm with you to the end of the line."

"You-you're a goddamn  _idiot,"_ Bucky whispers. "Can't you see I'm not worth all this?"

Steve steps closer, bringing a hand to Bucky's cheek. Bucky flinches slightly before leaning into it, Steve's eyes honest and resolute as they meet his. 

"You're worth  _everything_ to me," Steve replies. " _Everything."_

 


	10. Chapter 10

Bucky sits across from Sam at the breakfast table, sipping his coffee as Sam digs into his eggs and carefully not trying to decipher Steve's murmured voice on the phone in the other room. He's talking to Sharon Carter, and Bucky has no idea what to expect. Are they going to take him away? Are they going to execute him? Is he going to be extradited to another country for his crimes there?

"Barnes, I can see you working yourself up to a panic from here," Sam comments dryly. "It's understandable to be nervous, but we're not going to let anything happen to you."

Bucky takes a deep breath, blowing it out and nodding, leg still jiggling with anxiety under the table. "Yeah."

Steve's voice cuts off and his footsteps approach, Bucky not even wanting to look at his face to see the inevitable pained look. Steve slips into the chair next to him, grabbing a plate and loading it with eggs from the pan.

"So?" Sam asks.

Steve seems to measure his words and Bucky keeps staring at the table, dread pooling in his gut. "Well, they've pretty much decided on the charges. Long list, basically murder, terrorism, treason, etcetera. The problem is that they don't have evidence for everything, so they're not sure exactly what crimes were committed, and there's, well, it's an international issue. A lot of the assassinations were in Russia, and then there's more all over the globe. It'd be impossible for every country to get extradition, but Sharon says the government will most likely block any extradition, which is their right since Bucky's an American citizen, technically, though there's the whole coming back from the dead thing. So that's good. We're only dealing with the American legal system. No extradition."

Bucky breathes a small sigh of relief. At least the American legal system usually doesn't believe in cruel and unusual punishment. God knows what would happen if he was extradited. Execution, most likely. Or torture.

He feels the weight of Steve's gaze before he continues, Steve still speaking as if only to Sam, letting Bucky listen in and diverting the attention away from him. Bucky is absurdly grateful. "She said Bucky turns himself in, he gets legal representation and a trial. I can push for having custody if I say a normal jail wouldn't hold him. Then we go from there. With all the evidence we have, Tony's lawyers say we can get an insanity plea-basically that he didn't know right from wrong at the time. With that, he's released into psychiatric care-here, of course-until he's deemed stable, which we pretty much know already. Nothing will change."

It sounds...too good to be true. Bucky takes a deep breath. "So I turn myself in..."

"Here. We go down to the bottom of the tower and meet a CIA team. You say you're turning yourself in, and then they'll take you into custody and make you aware of all the charges and do a psychological evaluation. That'll be the worst part. Then, if all goes well, you'll be remanded into my custody until the trial. Which basically means then we just come right back up here. The only thing different is that they'll want measures to make sure you can't get out of the Tower, so...you can't leave, even if you tried."

Bucky frowns. "I could before?" Some part of him had thought he was a prisoner.

Steve shifts, wincing. "I mean, if you were dangerous to anyone else...." He takes a breath. "No, we would have stopped you. But right now, if you wanted to walk out the door I'd let you. But after this, the world, the government needs to know you're secured, because you're on trial. I don't like it, but it's what we have to do, and it's a hell of a lot better than you in some government facility. If you don't think about it, nothing's changed." Steve grins wryly. "Didn't really seem like you wanted to leave here anyway."

Bucky nods. He knows this, and he's actually glad. He wouldn't want Steve letting him out if he were dangerous. It's why he trusts Steve; he knows Steve can make the hard choices. If Bucky were going to hurt someone, Steve would stop him, no matter what it took.

"Okay," he says. "When?"

"As soon as you're ready."

Bucky bites his lip. "Can we...can we wait for Natalia?" He glances at Steve. She's supposed to be coming today, and he needs to see her first.

Steve nods. "Of course."

***

Bucky stands as the elevator doors open, heart beating fast with nervousness. The last time he'd seen Natalia, he'd shot her, and the time before that too. He doesn't even know if she really remembers their days in the Red Room. She was just a child, after all. Maybe she'd forgotten him.

Natalia steps through the doors, face carefully blank and composed, no emotions showing as she watches Bucky warily. 

"Barnes," she says coolly.

Bucky meets her gaze, feeling the pain of years.  _"Little spider,"_ he says in Russian.

Natalia's facade crumples and her eyes go wondering and grieved.  _"Yasha,"_ she breathes.

He forces a pained smile.  _"Yes."_

Then she's running, leaping into his arms like she's ten years old again, legs wrapped around his waist and face buried in his neck as he hugs her back tightly, feeling tears slip down his face.

 _"I'm_ _sorry,"_ he chokes out. 

Natalia shakes his head against his neck.  _"No. It is I that should be sorry. I didn't know...what they were doing to you. What they did to you. I should've known."_

_"You were only a child. It wasn't your fault."_

_"I looked for you,"_ she whispers.  _"I looked for you, for years, but I never found you."_

_"I'm here now."_

He finally sets her down, looking her over. She's so much older, not the child she used to be, hardened by pain and heartbreak, but he still sees her inside, sees the bright little girl who'd held his metal hand and whispered  _I love you's_ into his shoulder, small arms wrapped around him. Her eyes are wet and glittering with emotion though she valiantly tries to hide it, composing her expression. Bucky smiles.

_"You have grown."_

Natalia smiles back, eyes softening.  _"And you are the same."_ Her smile fades.  _"But you are not. You're not what they made you, not anymore."_

He nods.  _"I am myself. Whoever that is."_

_"Good."_

They both take a breath and become aware that Steve and Sam are still in the room, tactfully silent and turned away. Bucky jerks a head towards them and Natalia nods, following him over. She greets Steve with a hug and nods to Sam, expression composed again.

Sam crosses his arms. "So, you two know each other."

Natalia flicks a glance at Bucky. "Yes. I guess you already know what I am."

Bucky winces. "Sorry."

Natalia sighs. "I guess it had to come out sometime." She turns back to Steve and Sam. "I was made from him, and then he trained me, in the Red Room. It was...off and on, for years, whenever he was awake. I was ten when we met, and eighteen when they took him away."

Steve frowns, glancing at Bucky. "But I thought you said it was 1980 to 1988?" He looks at Natalia. "That would make you..." He trails off, eyes going wide.

"Forty-four?" Natalia replies with a sigh. "Yes. I don't age like humans, not since I reached adulthood."

Bucky frowns, perturbed. "You're older than me." It's strange. He's used to her being a child.

"Yes, by quite a bit, Yasha." Natalia's grin is teasing. "Now I can boss you around."

Bucky scowls.  _"You wouldn't dare. I'm still your father."_

Natalia bursts out laughing.  _"I'm not sure that's quite true."_

Bucky turns to Steve. "Does the fact that she's made from me make me her father?"

Steve blinks, stunned. "Uh...I don't know."

Sam groans. "Ugh. The thought of Barnes having children. No one needs that."

Bucky shrugs. "Never would've happened anyway. Steve's not exactly a woman. Can't have children."

Natalia chokes, then looks between him and Steve, eyes narrowing at Steve. "You mean, all this time, you two..."

Steve blushes.

Natalia gapes. "Why didn't you tell me? I was trying to set you up with women."

"What?" Bucky growls. 

"I'm bisexual," Steve points out tiredly.

Sam cackles. "Oh my god."

***

Bucky smoothes down his hair one last time, dragging his eyes away from his reflection as he takes a deep breath and steps out of the bathroom. He's dressed in nice jeans, boots, and a red henley, normal clothes that are nice but unthreatening and a far cry from his look as the Winter Soldier. As he walks down the hallway he stops, hearing Steve and Natalia conversing softly.

"You said he...trained you," Steve says. "What was that like?" He sounds afraid of the answer, and Bucky feels something ugly twist in his gut. Steve thought he hurt Natalia.

"It was...everything," Natalia replies. "He was everything to me. The way we met, the reasons we were there...they were horrible, but we had each other. Sometimes I think that was the happiest time of my life. He was...gentle." He can hear the smile in her voice. "He never hurt me, unless we were training and it was accidental, and he always apologized. He was kind. Every week they'd...." There's a swallow. "They'd take him away and...do something to him. Now I know it was the mind wiping, but I didn't know that then. He'd come back different. Like there was nothing inside, like he was the machine he told me he was. Sometimes he'd forget little things I'd said or done, or just go blank, like he wasn't there. But by the end of the week he'd be okay again. More of a person. He let me hug him, and hold his hand, or touch his hair, and he answered all my questions and told me that it mattered if I was hurt. He even-he made jokes. I mean...And he let me give him a name. _Yasha._ Said it had to be our secret, or they'd correct us both. And I knew-I knew something was wrong, but I was young and stupid and I believed all their lies. I never could have imagined what they did to him, who he used to be. And when they took him away...they had found out that we were attached. I didn't want to graduate, and he tried to protect me. Stepped between me and everyone else and kept fighting even when they shot him. They took him away, and I looked for him but I never saw him again until he shot me. I called out to him, but he just walked away. That hurt worse than anything. It wasn't until later that I realized he just didn't remember me. That they had erased it like everything else. But that's not quite true. They tried to carve him out, they erased him every single week, and yet he was still there. He was still a person. And I loved him."

Bucky swallows down a rush of emotion, forcing himself to take a deep breath as he continues down the hallway, making his footsteps audible. He enters the living room, seeing Steve, Natalia, and Sam already looking at him. Steve looks sad and happy all at once, giving Bucky a pained smile as Natalia watches with an inscrutable expression.

"Hey," Steve says. "Ready?"

Bucky nods wordlessly, anxiety clawing at his gut. The elevator dings and Tony steps through, expression similarly grim. 

"Come on, it's time."

He follows Tony back into the elevator with Steve, Natalia, and Sam, all of them silent and tense.

"Don't worry," Tony says lightly, clearing his throat. "You'll be back here in a few hours, and I'll put that last component in your arm."

Bucky nods, grateful for the attempt at support. The elevator stops on the bottom floor and he takes a breath. The doors open. They walk through a hallway, the sound of people growing nearer and nearer until they emerge into the lobby of the Tower where a full team of agents wait, men in SWAT gear lining the walls and making Bucky's heart race as he automatically calculates exits and strategies. He can hear a crowd outside, drawn by the activity, probably correctly surmising what's happening. Guns click on him as soon as he steps forward, Steve immediately throwing out an arm in his direction, to stop them or him Bucky doesn't know. He stands stock still, forcing himself to relax. He won't fight back. He will let them take him. It's his choice.

Sharon Carter steps forward and he relaxes minutely. Sharon is a good person, he knows that much, and she's trying to help him.

"Sergeant Barnes," she says.

He nods, remembering what he's supposed to say. "I want to turn myself in."

Sharon approaches, body language careful and cautious. "Are you armed?"

"No." His clothes are a good choice, making it fairly obvious he's unarmed unless he had knives hidden in his boots.

Sharon glances at Steve next to him. "He's unarmed?"

"Yes, ma'm." 

Sharon nods and returns to Bucky, holding up thick looking cuffs "Please put your hands in front of you."

Bucky complies, Sharon moving to snap the cuffs over his wrists not unkindly. There's a faint hum from them and he knows he can't break them even if he tried. The feeling of cuffs around his wrists makes his heart rate spike but he takes deep breaths, forcing it down.

"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during any questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at government expense. Do you understand these rights as I have said them?"

"Yes."

"Okay, I'm going to take you into custody. Captain Rogers and his teammates will be allowed to come to the facility to assist in the investigation, but you're in the CIA's custody now. Please follow me."

Sharon takes his right elbow and Bucky throws one last glance over his shoulder at his-his  _friends,_ he thinks, before facing front again. Sharon's grip on his arm is firm but gentle, and agents move to surround them as they approach the doors.

"Keep your head down and don't look," Sharon murmurs. The agent in front of them pushes through the door and immediately Bucky is assaulted by noise, a large crowd gathered and news trucks stationed around, cameras rolling and the flash of pictures blinding him as he ducks his head and keeps moving, following Sharon blindly as the agents clear a path through the crowd for them. They reach a black SUV and he climbs in, arms extended awkwardly in front of him as he sits in the middle seat, agents climbing in on each side. He puts his cuffed wrists in his lap, trying to breathe evenly at the feel of agents pressing against him in the confined space. Sharon climbs in the driver's seat, glancing back.

"All set?" He can hear the question underneath- _are you okay?-_ and feels a rush of gratitude. Sharon is an ally. He nods.

Sharon turns back to front, starting the car. They pull away through the crowd surrounded by other SUVs, the tinted windows not letting anyone see in. Bucky swallows and keeps his gaze to the front, still trying to take steadying breaths.

The drive is long and silent, the agents next to him staying tense and ready with hands twitching on their weapons. Bucky keeps himself carefully still and makes his expression blank, sinking into partial numbness. When they finally stop he's escorted out and led into a facility, seeing Steve, Sam, Natalia, and Tony step out of another SUV as he passes. He comes into a room with a two-way mirror that doesn't seem to be an interrogation room, a computer and fingerprinting material set up on the table. A man looks up as they enter, eyes widening as they land on Bucky. He quickly shakes himself.

"Okay, we're just getting information. Name, date of birth, fingerprints, photographs, that kind of stuff."

Bucky nods, Sharon a steady presence at his side and the agents lining the room. The man sits at the computer.

"Okay, let's start with name and date of birth."

He clears his throat. "James Buchanan Barnes. March 10, 1917."

The man types it in, keys clacking. "You know, I gotta say, this is the first time I've booked a ninety-seven year old." His voice is light, casual, and it sets Bucky at ease. He's making jokes. "Okay, stand over by that wall." He points to the wall opposite and Bucky goes, noting the measurements on the wall and the camera on the stand facing him. The man stands behind the camera, squinting through it. "Okay, straight forward." There's a click. "Now turn to the right." Bucky complies. There's another click. "Now to the left." Click. "Alright, all done." He presses a few buttons on the camera and then goes back to the computer, typing rapidly. A printer whirs and a sheet slides out.

The man waves him over, standing up and putting the sheet on the table. "Okay, fingerprints. Obviously just the right hand."

He moves over to the table and Sharon takes his right hand, maneuvering it awkwardly in the cuff to press his thumb into the ink and then roll it onto the paper. She repeats the process for each finger before wiping his fingers off. The man collects the sheet and then takes out a small plastic bag and what looks like a swab.

"DNA next. Just need to swab your cheek."

Bucky swallows, willing his heart rate down. It's just a swab. The man pulls on gloves and takes the swab out of the bag, stepping up.

"Okay, open your mouth."

Bucky steels himself before opening his mouth, trying not to think of bite guards and electricity in his head. The man reaches forward and in one quick motion swabs lightly against the inside of his cheek before withdrawing before Bucky has time to blink. He exhales slightly, relieved. The swab goes back in the bag and labeled before being put with the sheet on him.

"You're all set. We've already got the scans Mr. Stark sent over and the schematics for your arm, so there's no need to subject you to any more examination."

Sharon taps his elbow gently before gripping. "Come on. Thank you, Doctor."

The man waves a hand as they exit the room, escorted by the agents. 

"You're going to be restrained," Sharon tells him. "You'll be monitored, and someone is going to come in to talk to you. They just want an assessment of your psychological state before we move forward. Then you can meet with your lawyer before the arraignment, where they'll read the charges and you'll enter a plea. If all goes well, we'll remand you into Captain Roger's custody." She gives his elbow a reassuring squeeze.

He can't reply, mind slightly blank and overwhelmed. He's been doing nothing for weeks, just sitting in the safety of the apartment, and everything feels too loud and too bright and too fast. There's too many people, and he's restrained, and Steve or Sam aren't here and he just wants to go home and curl up on the couch. But he pulls himself together, forcing himself into calm detachment. He's the goddamn Winter Soldier. He can handle this.

After a long walk that descends deeper into the facility they enter into the room and Bucky stops dead. In the middle is what looks like a glass cube with a mechanical chair inside, a faint humming coming from it. There's restraints open on the arms and what looks like a metal chest restraint hanging above the chair that reminds him of the halo, of the chair in the vault, where they took everything away, his screams ringing off the walls-

Sharon's hand squeezes his elbow and he jumps, tearing himself out of his spiral of anxiety. 

"Ready?" Sharon asks.

Bucky takes a shaky breath and then another before nodding. He can do this. This is his choice. Sharon lets him set the pace, taking slow, dragged out steps towards the menacing chair. He finally steps inside the cube and turns, taking a breath before sitting in the chair. Sharon stands in front of him, expression calm and body language unthreatening.

"Okay, I'm going to put the leg and chest restraints on first, then un-cuff you and do the arms."

She bends down and snaps the cuffs around his ankles before reaching to pull down the v-shaped metal over Bucky's head and flush to his chest, the bars going over his shoulders and wrapping around his biceps. He breathes raggedly, having to close his eyes as the metal descends, memories pressing at him. Sharon lets him sit for a minute and regain control of his breathing before she un-cuffs his wrists and re-cuffs them to the arms of the chair, a faint tingling going through his metal arm.

"There's an electric pulse going through this," she tells him. "It keeps you from using the arm. I'm sorry about this, but it's the way it has to be. Better safe than sorry."

He nods, clearing his throat. "I understand."

"Okay, I'm going to leave, and the psychologist is going to come in. This shouldn't take long. We'll be watching the whole time." She gives him a slight smile before stepping back, the door to the cube closing and locking before she leaves, the agents trailing after her. A minute later the door opens and middle-aged man with brown hair wearing slacks and a collared shirt with a sweater over top enters. He looks harmless enough, but his eyes linger on Bucky and glint in a way that makes Bucky distinctly uncomfortable, though he doesn't know why.

"Hello, Mr. Barnes. I've been sent to evaluate you. Do you mind if I sit?"

Bucky stays silent, staring at the bright lights of the cube and trying to choke down the panicked blankness that threatens to overtake him. The man sits behind a desk facing the cube, setting down his bag and withdrawing a tablet and notepad, pen clicking on the table.

"My name is Dr. Broussard," he says, a faint accent lilting his words. "Your first name is James?"

Bucky stills finds he can't answer, the chair stealing his words and making him rail against giving them anything.  _Stop it,_ he tells himself.  _They're trying to help. They're not Hydra._ But he still can't drag himself out of the blankness.

"I'm not here to judge you. I just want to ask you a few questions. Do you know where you are, James?"

Bucky swallows, trying to make himself open his mouth.

"I can't help you if you don't talk to me, James."

"My name is Bucky." It slips out automatically, instinctively.

Broussard nods, writing something on the notepad. "Okay. Good." He leans forward. "Tell me, Bucky. You've seen a great deal, haven't you?"

Bucky grits his teeth. "I don't want to talk about it."

"You fear that...if you open your mouth, the horrors might never stop." Broussard looks down, tapping on his tablet. "Don't worry." He looks up. "You won't have to talk at all."

Bucky feels a jolt of fear. Something isn't right. In the next instant the lights go out and the cube powers down, the hum disappearing and red lights flashing. Bucky turns to Broussard.

"What the hell is this?"

"Why don't we discuss your real home. Not Manhattan, no. Certainly not Brooklyn." He reaches in his bag and withdraws a red book with a star, one that makes Bucky's blood run cold. "I mean your real home." He pulls off his glasses, setting them on the table as pure panic washes through Bucky. _No, no, please._ Where is everyone? Where's Steve?

The man stands up, book open.  _"Longing."_

Bucky shakes his head slightly, feeling the nudge at his mind. "No," he whispers. His head drops back against the headrest.  _No, please._

_"Rusted."_

His chin trembles and he squeezes his eyes shut. "Stop."

_"Seventeen."_

His metal hand clenches into a fist and he feels desperate rage wash over him, the words pulling at his mind. He can't do this again. He  _can't._ "Stop," he grits out.

_"Daybreak."_

He screams, mind splitting with agony as the words try to drag him down, to fracture his mind into pieces and leave nothing but the soldier. His head snaps down and he wrenches at the cuffs, the left one flying open under his metal arm. Desperation claws at him. If he can get to the doctor, if he can make him stop-

_"Furnace."_

He rips free of the restraints, lunging towards the glass door.

_"Nine."_

He punches the glass with the metal arm, feeling his mind slip away as the doctor circles him. He is Bucky-he is-he is Barnes-he is-

_"Benign."_

He punches harder with a yell, feeling his thoughts and memories fracture and scatter like ashes, blown away. He is-he is....Barnes, 32557038-

_"Homecoming."_

The glass is fracturing under his fist. It's not enough. Bucky struggles and fights with the soldier, trapped in his mind as blank rage overtakes everything.

_"One."_

He is-he is....

_"Freight car."_

Something snaps in his mind. The door flies across the room and the soldier crouches on the floor, breathing heavily as knowledge slots into place. He is the Winter Soldier. He is a skilled operative. He serves Russia and Hydra. The man who said the words is his handler. He is not human. He does not question. He only follows orders. If he does not, there is pain. He will comply.

He straightens up slowly as the handler steps around to face him, waiting.

_"Soldier?"_

_"Ready to comply."_

"You have been captured by the enemy. You will break out of here and find a van waiting outside. It will take you back to base. Failure is not an option."

There's the sound of agents clustering outside the door. The soldier moves, putting himself in front of his handler. The door breaks down and the soldier whirls into action, mind blank and focused. He blocks bullets with the metal arm, knocking the agents to the ground where they lie, unconscious but not dead. His mission is not to kill them, he tells himself. He's not sure why he has to tell himself this.

"Wait," the handler says. 

The soldier retreats into the back half of the room, the shadows keeping him hidden. The handler slumps down against the wall as footsteps sound, pretending to be hurt.

"Help. me Help," he repeats. 

A man enters and sees the handler, face growing hard. "Get up." He grips the handler by the shirt, slamming him against the wall. "Who are you? What do you want?"

The handler smiles. "Hail Hydra."

Another man enters and the soldier strikes, moving forward and aiming a punch at his face. The man ducks and the soldier's metal fist smashes into the wall, crumbling the concrete. The man parries his strikes but he's no match for the soldier and the soldier grips him by the chin- _the familiar face-_ and throws him, the man hitting the cube and falling to the ground limply. The other man attacking his handler whirls, meeting the soldier blow for blow. The soldier drives him back out of the room with the cube and through a series of rooms, finally reaching elevator doors. He slams the metal fist into the man's chest and the man catches it, the arm whirring before the soldier shoves and the man bursts through the doors, falling down. The soldier spares a second to look down- _the man will survive, he's enhanced-_ before continuing on. 

He makes his way up to the main floor, ripping through agents effortlessly. The darkness of the underground retreats, light streaming in the windows of the main floor, though he doesn't need light to see. Two agents come at him with batons and he parries them, knocking one to the ground and taking the other's gun, the man falling onto the table as the soldier aims and-

Something hits him, a shockwave that makes pain shoot through his ears. Everything goes quiet and buzzing as he turns, seeing a man in a suit with something on his hand run towards him. The man raises his hand and bright light blinds the soldier, his arm going up instinctively to cover his eyes as he drops into a crouch. He recovers quickly, lunging up to catch the man's hands as they grapple for the gun. The soldier tears the gun away and aims but the man wraps an armored hand around the barrel. The soldier fires, the shockwave traveling up his arm painfully as the man looks up at him in horrified disbelief, obviously shaken. He doesn't seem to be a skilled fighter, relying on technology. The soldier yanks the gun back, the slide coming off and staying in the man's hand. There's a pause and the man grins slightly before hitting the soldier across the face with it, obviously expecting to take him out. The soldier's head snaps around with the blow, rage sparking, but it is only pain and he elbows the man in the face before punching him in the stomach, sending him sliding across the floor and into chairs.

A blonde woman comes towards him, fighting skill evident, another red-haired woman running behind her. He blocks her blows and the red-haired woman runs forward, driving her knee into his chest before landing quick strikes to his groin as the blonde woman spins and kicks him in the face. He takes the blows, not faltering.  _It is only pain._ She wraps a leg around his shoulder but it's his metal shoulder and he grabs her, flipping her into a table. The red-haired woman surprises him from behind, the soldier not having sensed her coming. She grabs his shoulders and uses it to flip herself onto him, legs wrapping around his neck as she drives her elbows into the top of his head. He moves across the room, grabbing her and slamming her onto a table as his metal arm wraps around her throat, her legs still locked around his neck. Her hands clasp the wrist gently, tapping almost.  _Let go. I'm done._ Why does he know this?

"You could at least recognize me," she chokes out, barely audible through the ringing in his ears.

Something connects with his shoulder and he's driven back, the woman gasping for breath as he turns to face his newest opponent, not having heard them coming. Functionality is compromised because of the hearing loss.

It's the man with the armored hand. He shoots another blast of energy from the armor, hitting the soldier in the abdomen with burning pain. The soldier growls, moving forward to dispatch him, but the red-haired woman tackles him from behind, wrapping her legs around his neck again and flipping him to the ground. He lands heavily, something familiar about the motion, and her legs stay locked around his throat as he chokes. He reaches up with the metal hand but another blast from the man's hand makes him bite down on a scream, only pausing for a second before continuing his motion. It is just pain. Another blast hits him but he ignores it, grabbing the woman's leg with his metal hand and ripping it away just as black dots start to float in his vision. He grabs her leg and flings with all his strength, sending her flying across the room. 

"Barnes," the man says desperately. "I don't want to hurt you."

The soldier snarls and lunges at the man, catching him in the middle and slamming him to the ground. The man raises a hand between them, the center of his palm glowing white as he aims it at the soldier's chest. "Barnes."

The soldier raises the metal fist and it whirs, calibrating, before he drives it down. A blast from the man's armored hand sends him flying before it connects, the soldier crashing into tables as the smell of burning flesh meets his nose. He staggers to his feet, ignoring the burn on his chest as he feels someone coming. It's the man from the first room, the one with blonde hair and blue eyes-

He counters the man's strikes, getting sloppier as his chest burns and his head aches, movements jerky, as if he's not in control of his body. 

"Bucky," the man says between strikes. "Bucky, it's me. It's Steve."

Something about the name catches and  _hurts,_ and the soldier lashes out at the man with a scream. Failure is not an option. The man- _ ~~Steve~~ -_goes flying but gets up, obviously enhanced, as the other man from before runs in, the one he'd thrown into the cube.

"Barnes. Come on, you don't want to do this. I don't know what they did to your head, but it's not real. You  _remember._ You gotta remember. You don't want to do this."

The soldier stares at them blankly, trying to shove away the niggling presence at the back of his mind. Someone is screaming in his head, telling him to stop, telling him this is wrong, but the soldier ignores it.  _Failure is not an option._

He springs back into action and the men meet him, blocking him blow for blow. The soldier swings at _Steve's_ face, misses-

He stops, staggering, shaking his head. Something else is controlling his body, there is someone else in his head fighting for control. A voice is screaming, distorted and hazy. 

"Bucky?"

Pain spikes and the soldier lashes out, mind snapping back to focused blankness. The man's fist crashes into his face, the other kicking him in the ribs, making the burn flare with pain. He fights back desperately, mind going white and staticky.  _Failure is not an option._

His metal hand wraps around  _Sam's_ throat and he squeezes his eyes shut against blinding pain in his head, gasping slightly. The metal hand loosens and tightens without his control, flexing, and his right hand is shaking by his side as he stands frozen, a horrible fuzzing scream in his head.

_Stop stop make it stop stop no please-_

"Barnes. Hey. It's just Sam. I'm right here."

The soldier shudders, mind splitting apart, before his eyes snap open and he throws the man away hard, sending him crashing into a table. He turns to the other man, parrying his blows, before white-hot pain bursts in his back and he stumbles, dropping to one knee. The man with the armored hand. The other man takes the chance to lock an arm around his neck as the armored man aims the hand at him, the red-haired woman, the blonde woman, and the man he choked all standing around him, slightly worse for wear but still able to fight.

"Stand down," the man choking him says in his ear. "We've got you surrounded. You can't fight your way outta this one, Buck."

No. NO.  _Failure is not an option._ The soldier wrenches the man's hand away with his metal one, kicking him back with a scream. Another blast hits his midsection but he ignores it, fighting desperately against the people surrounding him. Something hits him in the head and he staggers, blinking as he raises a hand to it, everything blurry and distorted and unreal. Where is he? What is he doing? He stares at the blood coating his fingers in fascination before looking up, seeing people standing in fighting stances around him in various states of injury. 

"What the hell?" he manages.

He hears sighs of relief, but they don't move. A man steps forward, blonde hair and blue eyes,  _Steve,_ he knows him, it's Steve, what is he doing here-

"Buck?"

A hand reaches out and something in his mind snaps, the soldier coming back to awareness with a vicious throb in his head. He lashes out again, the people surrounding him sighing with grim faces as they block his increasingly sloppy blows, dark spots dancing in the soldier's vision from the head wound. He stumbles and staggers, breaths ragged and head pounding. The people seem to be pulling their punches, waiting for him to make the first move. On the defense. They're not doing anything except keeping him where he is. The soldier stumbles and falls to his knees, swaying as the world spins. Someone screams in his mind and his hand shakes. The soldier's hand does not shake. He is shaking.

"Come on, Barnes, stay down," a voice says. "You can stop fighting."

 _Failure is not an option._ The soldier hauls himself to his feet, fighting against the red-haired woman as she blocks him easily, keeping him trapped within the circle of people.

"Seriously? Barnes, come on, stop, you're gonna kill yourself."

There's a beat of silence. She deflects another sloppy blow.  _Pathetic._

"Oh god, he's actually going to kill himself. He won't stop."

"New plan."

An arm wraps around his neck and he panics, fingers scrabbling at it. Hands grab his wrists, restraining them, and the person behind him wraps a leg around his, the soldier effectively immobilized as the pressure on his throat tightens. He chokes and gasps, panic replacing cold blankness as he struggles futilely against the weight pressed to his back, hot breath in his ear, against the hands holding him still and the voices swirling around him.  _No, no, please-_

Sounds fade and his vision goes dark, the soldier falling limp as he slips into unconsciousness.


	11. Chapter 11

He groans, pain blooming as he comes back to awareness. His head dips forward and up, light in his vision making him squint as he opens his eyes, everything blurry. He tries to move and can't, realizing he's restrained with cuffs on his arms and legs and something over his chest, a humming in his ears, and panic washes over him as he starts to tug on them.  _No no no no no not again, please, no-_

Someone moves in front of him and he flinches, breaths coming in gasps as he tries to see through the pounding in his head.

"Buck?"

His vision clears and he sees Steve standing in front of him, watching him warily. He looks around wildly, seeing Sam, Natalia, Tony, and Sharon all standing around the cube that he's currently in, no glass in the front, and suddenly the memories rush in, making him freeze. The tower, the CIA, the cube, the man, and then.....flashes. Fighting. Choking.

He exhales shakily, slumping in the restraints that are secure once more, electricity running through them. "Steve," he rasps.

Steve studies him before nodding. "It's him."

The others relax, breathing sighs of relief. They're all sporting various injuries, and Bucky himself feels like he's been run over by a tank. He swallows, feeling guilt and anger and exhaustion war within him.

"What did I do?"

Steve looks pained. "Enough."

Bucky closes his eyes, dropping his head as he tries to push down the lump in his throat. "Oh god. I knew this would happen. Everything Hydra put inside me is still there. All he had to do was say the goddamn words."

"Trigger words?" Natalia questions.

Bucky nods, looking up at her. "The Russians. He had the red book."

"We lost him," Steve says. "I'm sorry."

So the man is still out there, with a book that can turn Bucky back into the Winter Soldier. Something like resigned hopelessness fills him. He'll never be free. He'll never stop hurting others.

"Are you...good now?" Steve questions. "If we let you out of these, you're not going to snap again?"

Bucky shrugs as much as he can in the restraints. "I don't think so. I don't feel anything. I think unconsciousness did the trick. Plus the head wound. I can sorta remember after that."

"Cognitive recalibration," Natalia comments. "I did it for someone else once."

Steve looks over at Sharon. "Can we let him out?"

Sharon grimaces, and then shakes her head. "I'm sorry. Especially after that, no. No one died, thankfully, but there's a lot of good agents in the hospital. We can't take any chances, and for all anyone else knows he attacked on his own. I'm already getting heat from the director. He wants to take over this case. You guys aren't even supposed to be here. I pulled a lot of strings for you to be here when he woke up."

"He's injured," Steve protests. 

Sharon hesitates. "We'll take off the chest restraint and get a doctor to treat his injuries. But remember, there's no proof of the trigger words, nothing except the psychologist fleeing, and that doesn't make Barnes look any less guilty. There's no video footage after the power cut. Everyone thinks he just attacked. If we don't get that red book, he's going down for this."

Bucky tilts his head back against the headrest. This is it. Either Hydra will get him again, or he'll be tried and executed. He'll never get to live in the tower with Steve, will never antagonize Sam or hug Natalia or build things with Tony again. He'll never get any of it. A life, home, peace. He was stupid to think he had a chance, after everything he's done. This will hurt Steve, but he'll be okay. Maybe he'll be better without Bucky in his life, dragging him down. Steve has Sam now, and Natalia. Even Tony.

Steve steps forward and gently undoes the chest restraints, lifting them over Bucky's head. Bucky glances down, seeing the holes in his shirt and the raw burns underneath where Tony's replusor had struck him. God, he could have killed him. Tony didn't even have a suit, just an arm piece he'd been fiddling around with. His suits were all gone. Bucky could have killed Tony.  _Like you killed his parents,_ a voice whispers. 

"You okay?" Steve asks softly.

Bucky stays silent, staring at his lap. Steve sighs.

"Stupid question, I know. I'm so sorry this happened. We'll fix this, I swear."

Bucky closes his eyes and leans his head back, unable to look at Steve. The memories of the incident are coming back now, but they feel foggy, as if looking at them through a smudged lens. Like they didn't happen to him. He remembers throwing Steve down an elevator shaft. And he nearly killed Sam, multiple times. He nearly strangled Natalia. He's dangerous. He should be locked up, or put down. They should never let him out of this chair.

"Come on," Sharon says. "I'm sorry guys, but you have to leave." She turns to Bucky. "We'll get a doctor in here, but the arraignment won't be until the morning. You're monitored, so if you need anything just say the word. We won't attempt psychological evaluation again until you're hopefully back in the Avenger's custody, as long as your lawyer or you don't move to get you declared incompetent to stand trial. You seem fairly competent from what I've seen."

Bucky nods. His friends each throw him one last worried look and a "good luck" before leaving him alone, Sharon escorting them out. After a little while a doctor enters and steps up into the cube, radiating nervousness as he sets down his bag and snaps on gloves. The smell of latex meets Bucky's nose and he swallows down nausea. 

"Just the burns?" the doctor asks. "And minor cuts and bruises?"

"Head injury," Bucky rasps.

The doctor nods before withdrawing a light, clicking it on. 

"Look straight ahead."

Bucky complies as the doctor passes the light in front of his eyes. The light clicks off.

"Can I touch your head?"

"Yes."

He feels the doctor's fear as he stands next to Bucky, reaching out to feel his head. He probes the lump above his right temple, Bucky wincing at the tenderness, before moving around the rest of his head. There's another sore spot on the top, where Natalia hit him, and his whole head feels tight and aching from the trigger.

"You definitely have a concussion," the doctor says, pulling back. "But you're...enhanced, I presume, so it's probably fine." He sounds like he just wants to get this over with. Bucky agrees.

The doctor moves to his burns, taking small scissors and cutting away the fabric around them. Bucky hears his intake of breath and knows he's spotted the scars. He stares at the ceiling, wishing he was anywhere but here. He wants to be in the apartment, warm and safe, curled on the couch with Steve next to him and Sam in the armchair. He wants to be in Tony's workshop, Dum-E tapping his arm as he tinkers with a part, Tony humming along to a song in the background. He wants to be-he wants to be home. He wants to go home. Further back, even.  _Real_ home. He wants to hug his Ma, to cry into her embrace and let her stroke a hand through his hair and murmur reassurances. He wants to sit with Becca on his bedroom floor, doing her hair for her as she talks about nothing and everything, hands gesturing animatedly and brown curls shifting under Bucky's hands. He wants to sit with Steve on his fire escape, shoulders pressed together as they look out over Brooklyn, young and innocent and free. He wants to go home.

***

He must drift off a some point, jerking awake to find himself still in the chair. It wasn't a nightmare. This is real. Bucky leans his head back against the headrest and slips into blankness.

***

His lawyer steps into the room, setting his stuff on the desk but striding right up to the front of the cube, open now that the glass is gone. It looks like everything's been cleaned up as well as possible, the injured agents taken away and the only proof anything happened the hole in the wall from his fist and the missing glass. He doesn't know how long it's been, how long he was out for, but it's probably morning now. There's no clocks in here, nothing but silence broken only by the humming of the chair, sinking into his nerves and making everything bright and loud and numb at the edges of his mind. His chest is bandaged roughly, shirt still hanging in tatters around them and the burn on his back never addressed. The doctor hadn't asked. Bucky hadn't said anything. It chafes against the back of the chair painfully, hunger sharpening in Bucky's core. His face feels swollen and bruised as do his ribs, his throat raw and sore and head pounding incessantly.

The lawyer frowns as he takes in the cube, looking distinctly disapproving. He's a young man, with short, wavy brown hair and green eyes that are sharp and intelligent in a slightly freckled face. His frame is lean, a runner's build, and he's probably only a few inches shorter than Bucky. His eyes crinkle pleasantly at the corners, and his lips are pursed in displeasure as he studies Bucky's appearance. Bucky knows he probably looks like hell.

"Sergeant Barnes. I'm Michael Hawthorne. I'm your lawyer. I'd say it's an honor to meet you, but given the circumstances..." He cracks a small, rueful smile.

Bucky finds himself relaxing slightly, giving a smile that's more like a grimace. "Yeah," he says. "Not my best day. Also not my worst."

_Why the hell did you have to say that?_ a voice berates him. _Seriously, could you be any more depressing?_ _Jesus Christ Barnes, get it together._  

Hawthorne grimaces. "Well, unfortunately that's what I'm here to talk about. You heard of an NGRI?"

Bucky starts to shake his head, but the pain stops him. He clears his throat. "No."

"It means Not Guilty by Reason of Insanity. And that doesn't mean 'insane,' like what you're probably thinking. It just means you didn't know right from wrong at the time of the crime."

"Yeah. I did...Steve talked about that. Insanity plea."

Hawthorne nods. "Oh. Good. So, based on the evidence I've seen so far, it's pretty clear you didn't know right from wrong at the time of the crime. That's what I'm going to have to prove to the court. This new incident, however, throws a wrench in the works. All they're saying is that you got free and took out a bunch of agents before the Avengers subdued you. Now I don't know what really happened, do you want to tell me? This entire conversation is privileged. No one's watching."

Bucky closes his eyes, leaning his head back against the headrest. "There was a psychologist. Hydra. He had the book that held my trigger words. He said them and I...you know. Tried to kill everyone."

"But you didn't kill anyone." 

Bucky opens his eyes to meet Hawthorne's, who is giving him an almost challenging look. "I sure tried," Bucky growls. "Before they took me down."

"Hmm." Hawthorne taps his chin. "And yet, I heard you took out almost every single CIA agent in the entire building, and didn't kill a single one. Pretty impressive feat."

"I-" Bucky frowns, confused. "I guess....they weren't my mission. They just got in the way."

"So you weren't trying to kill everyone."

Damn, this guy really is a lawyer. Bucky grits his teeth. "I guess...not. He told me...to escape."

"And you weren't in control of your mind?"

"No. I told you, there were-there were trigger words. He has the book." Bucky feels close to his breaking point, every nerve frayed.

Hawthorne raises a calming hand. "I know. I'm just clarifying, so I can prepare a better defense. I want to help you. I don't think you wanted to hurt anyone."

Bucky bites his lip, swallowing down the lump in his throat. "No." He hadn't wanted to hurt anyone.

"So you weren't in control of your mind, and your only objective was to escape. You disarmed agents without permanent damage, fought the Avengers, and then...how did you come back?"

"I got hit real hard in the head, and then Steve choked me unconscious. Woke up...me again."

Hawthorne nods. "Okay. We can work with this. The problem is the lack of video feed and the book, as well as the psychologist. From an outside perspective it looks like he tried to help you escape and you took it. Also, we need to know exactly how much control the trigger phrase has over you. Do you know your trigger words? Could you..write them down, somehow?"

Bucky thinks. "I...know them. I think I could write them down. They don't trigger me unless they're said in a specific sequence, in a specific way."

"That's good. I know this is probably the last thing you want to do, but...if someone were to trigger you in a safe environment, and record it, it would prove that you weren't in control of your mind."

Bucky's fist clenches. "I don't-I don't know if I can do that."

"That's okay. Think on it. I can come up with other ways, and if we find the book it shouldn't be an issue. Anyway, this is just our first meeting to prepare for the arraignment. You're probably, no-definitely not eligible for bail, and you're quite a special case, so that's actually going to work in our favor as everything should move very quickly. All you need to do for now is go into the courtroom, listen to the charges, and then plead 'Not Guilty by Reason of Insanity.' Think you can do that?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, right now I'm going to give you a rundown on charges. First is first degree murder, ten counts right now. That's all they have evidence for. Of course, if you admit to more...." He winces. "Next, treason. That's pretty self-explanatory. Then domestic terrorism as well as non-domestic terrorism, since you did things abroad as well as in America. Now the newest ones are attempting to escape from lawful custody, plus aggravated assault and battery of the agents, and those are going to be the trickiest. You understand all those?"

"Yes."

"Okay, so they'll read them out in court and you submit your plea. Before that, they may still want to do an interrogation here, but you don't have to say anything. I'll be right here."

Bucky worries at his lip. "And if I want to confess to other crimes?"

Hawthorne blinks. "You can, though you don't have to. What would you confess?"

"About twenty more murders, if I can remember them."

Hawthorne nods, stepping back to the desk to grab a pad of paper and a pen. "Got names?"

He takes a deep breath. "Some."

***

Sharon reads over the list, eyebrows climbing on her forehead, where there's a small cut and bruise on her temple.  _From where he flipped her into a table._  "You're confessing to all of these?"

"Yes."

She nods. "Okay. That you're cooperating looks good. Is there any other information you could tell us? About Hydra maybe?"

He shakes his head slightly and winces when it sends pain spiking through his head. "They never told me anything. Well, the Russians did. They gave me whole files on the-on the targets sometimes. But Pierce...he wouldn't even tell me their names, usually. Point is, I don't know anything. I didn't....I didn't even know the year, with Pierce. Nothing. It was just-" He swallows. "Mission, cryo, wipe, mission, cryo, wipe. Not much else. Sometimes I was only awake for a day."

Sharon presses her lips together, but Bucky can't read her expression. She nods, flipping the page of the legal pad down. "Thank you, Sergeant Barnes. The arraignment will be soon. You won't have to be here much longer." Her eyes hold a spark of sympathy that Bucky can't fathom, given he tried to kill her only last night. She leaves, Hawthorne getting up from the table and coming back to lean on the doorway of the cube again.

"How are you holding up?" he questions, eyes kind.

Bucky shrugs slightly, the chest restraints back down now that he's bandaged. Everything hurts, and the chair is hard and unforgiving and only makes it worse, his metal shoulder aching and the hum of electricity still making every nerve tingle and sending a frisson of numbness through his brain. 

"Could be worse," he rasps, thinking of fabric around his eyes and weight suspended by his wrists, of silver knives cutting into his skin and a heavy weight pressing him against the wall, of every single torture Russia and Hydra had put him through. He's certainly been through worse. And yet, why does he feel like this? There's something heavy and awful in his chest, pressure building and building and nerves shot to hell, a mixture of exhaustion and terror and guilt running through him at every moment and his head filled with static and confusion, hunger clawing at his insides. He feels fractured, adrift, violated, separated from himself; like there's been someone else in his head and he was unceremoniously shoved out, locked away as he screamed and begged and pleaded for them-him-to stop. Made to watch, a passenger in his own body, as he attacked his friends, as his friends hurt him back. His body is not his own, if it can be taken from him with ten words. He doesn't feel real. He doesn't _want_ to be real. He feels like a live wire, and yet he doesn't think he has the energy to do anything right now. He just wants everything to stop. It's too much, and he wants to get out of this godforsaken chair and go home, wants to wake up from this nightmare. That's what it must be, a nightmare. It can't be real. He can't do this. He can't. He'd rather put a gun to his temple and pull the trigger right now than do this-

He blinks, pulling himself out of his spiral of thoughts.  _Fucking hell, Barnes, keep it together._

"Hey," Hawthorne says.

Bucky turns his head, seeing him sitting at the table. When did that happen? Hawthorne gets up, coming closer.

"You kind of checked out for a while there. I was getting worried."

Bucky swallows, looking down. "Happens."

"Hey, you got nothing to explain. But it's almost time for the arraignment. Ready?"

He grimaces. "Ready."

***

Sharon undoes the arm cuffs of the chair and the chest restraints, leaving the leg ones. 

"Okay, you're set."

Bucky reaches for the hem and pulls his shirt off, wincing as the back tears away from the burn where it had been stuck and his muscles protest. He finally manages to get the ragged, bloodstained fabric over his head, Sharon only glancing at his scars before carefully looking at his face as she holds out a new shirt. It's a prison shirt, plain white and short-sleeved, but the looseness will be a welcome relief. Bucky pulls it on, the fabric chafing slightly against the open wound on his back. He holds out his wrists and Sharon snaps the cuffs on, undoing his leg restraints and stepping back to let him get out. Bucky pushes himself to his feet not without difficulty, swaying on shaking legs as the world spins for a second. Finally he stumbles out of the cube, Sharon putting a steadying hand on his elbow as she leads him from the room with Hawthorne following close behind. A team of agents falls in next to them as they walk, hands gripping their guns tightly and their fear palpable to Bucky's senses. They're right to be afraid, he thinks. He just took out an entire building of them.

They lead him outside and into an SUV, agents sitting on either side and practically vibrating with fear, though they do a good job of hiding it. Bucky stares down at his cuffed wrists, slipping into blankness. A little while later they arrive, the door opening so Bucky can climb out awkwardly as Sharon takes his arm again, agents flanking them. There's already a crowd, and cameras flash and voices scream as he ducks his head and focuses on putting one foot in front of the other, mind going numb at the edges. They finally get inside the courtroom, less people inside but a few reporters and civilians in the rows as they make their way up to the front. Bucky blinks as he sees Steve, Sam, Natalia, and Tony in one of the front rows, and they all shoot him reassuring smiles as he passes. Bucky tries to nod back, but the bruises evident on each of their faces only make his stomach twist with guilt. Bucky is sat in one of the chairs behind a desk facing the front, Hawthorne already there and shuffling papers.

A judge shuffles into the room.

"All rise for the Honorable Judge Marshall."

Hawthorne taps his shoulder and Bucky stands, waiting until the judge waves at them to sit. The judge shifts in his chair before leaning forward, hands clasped.

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen."

Bucky glances at the clock. _It's 9:00 already?_ Bucky thinks.  _Christ._ He'd turned himself in yesterday afternoon. The judge starts to speak, and Bucky forces his attention back, exhaustion pulling at him.

***

The judge peers at him and then looks up, eyes hard. "Can anyone tell me why the defendant is bleeding in my courtroom?"

Bucky can feel the trail of blood down his temple from the head wound, partially dried and pulling at his face, one eye slightly swollen from where Steve had managed to clock him in the face. He's sure he looks like hell.

"His injuries were sustained during the...attempted escape," Sharon says. "He was treated by a doctor, who asserted that the injuries aren't life-threatening." She doesn't look happy about this.

The judge looks back at Barnes. "Do you feel you received adequate medical care, Mr. Barnes?"

Bucky swallows. He can't say no, or he'll only make it worse. They'll only hurt him worse. He's not allowed to complain. "I am func-fine," he corrects, clearing his throat. _Goddamnit, this isn't Hydra. Get it together, Barnes._ "I'm fine."

The judge looks at him skeptically for a moment. "Okay. Let's proceed."

***

"Do you understand the charges as they are set, Mr. Barnes?"

"Yes." His voice is hoarse, throat still swollen and raw from the strangulation.

"And how do you plead?"

He swallows. "Not guilty by reason of insanity."

***

Sharon stands, hands clasped behind her back. "We move to have Sergeant Barnes remanded into the custody of the Avengers, your Honor. They have already proven capable of restraining him if needed, and the Avenger's Tower is one of the most heavily fortified locations. The events of yesterday will not have a chance to be repeated."

The judge nods. "That is a reasonable request. I see no problem with it, as long as it is within the law. I expect the CIA to still remain in control of the situation."

Bucky feels a rush of relief. He gets to go back to the tower, if only for a little while. He can go home.

***

The gavel bangs. "Court is adjourned."

There's a murmur as people start to get up, Bucky feeling cold and numb. Hawthorne glances at him.

"I'll see you soon to start working on your defense."

Bucky nods. Sharon comes forward and grabs his arm, leading him from the room. Agents cluster around them and Sharon squeezes his elbow, ducking her head to murmur in his ear.

"Just keep your head down. Don't look. We've got this."

They push through the doors to a rush of noise, the crowd at least doubled since they came in. Camera flashes make his head pound, the voices swirling around him indistinctly and agents too close to him, Sharon's hand gripping his elbow firmly and everything pressing in on him, Bucky feeling himself slip away into quiet blankness as the noise dies away in his ears. He's being shoved into a car, agents pressing on each side and doors slamming, finally shutting out the crowd. The SUV starts and then they are moving, trundling slowly away before picking up speed. Bucky stares down at his lap blankly, feeling nothing.

He blinks to find them stopped, the agents getting out and pulling him out after them. He stumbles, looking around. It's dim and quiet, and after a moment he realizes it's the underground parking garage they'd come into when he first arrived at the tower. It seems so long ago, now.

Footsteps sound and he sees Steve and the others approaching, Steve moving to shake Sharon's hand. 

"He's all yours," she says. "But the CIA will be maintaining a perimeter around the building and must be made aware of your security measures and procedures. Also, we'll still want a psychological evaluation, so you'll be expected to cooperate with that. That might actually help your defense, though. Any decent psychologist would be able to see that Barnes isn't responsible." She pauses. "I'm sorry about all this. This wasn't the way it was supposed to go."

Steve nods. "Yeah. But thank you. I don't know what we would have done without you."

"No need to thank me. Just doing my duty." 

Natalia steps up. "Always so modest." She gives Sharon a kiss on the cheek, and Bucky feels like there's something he should be grasping about that but it slips away in the blank numbness overtaking his brain. The agents pile back into the car and Sharon steps up in front of him, unlocking the cuffs.

"I'm sorry," she says sincerely. "You shouldn't have had to go through all this." She holds out her hand to shake and Bucky takes it, keeping his grip gentle. "Good luck," Sharon adds. She ducks into the SUV and it starts and pulls away as Bucky feels Steve come up next to him, laying a gentle hand on his arm.

"Come on."

Bucky follows Steve and the others numbly, piling into the elevator. The ascend to their floor and Natalia reaches out, squeezing his metal hand.

"You should get some rest. I'll see you later."

"My workshop's open," Tony adds.

Bucky nods mutely, following Steve and Sam out as the elevator doors open. The apartment looks the same as before, not even 24 hours having passed but feeling like a lifetime. Steve leads him down the hall and into the bathroom, expression worried as he scans Bucky.

"You want to take a shower? Or a bath?"

Bucky raises two fingers. Steve nods, walking over to the tub and turning the faucet on with a quiet squeak. Bucky looks down at his shoes, the effort to bend down and untie them seeming insurmountable. Suddenly Steve is there, crouching down.

"Want me to?"

Bucky nods, setting a hand on Steve's shoulder for balance as Steve takes his shoes and socks off. Then Steve stands, wordlessly helping Bucky take his shirt off and peering at the bandages. He carefully peels them off, lips pressed together in a fine line. They're slightly healed but still raw, every movement pulling at them.

"They didn't even do anything for these. Let's get them clean, and then you need to feed." He throws the old bandages away as Bucky stands unmoving and then reaches for his pants. Bucky's metal hand snaps out, gripping Steve's wrist, a small burst of panic worming its way through the numbness as his breath hitches.

"Sorry," Steve says, looking stricken. "I should've-I'm sorry. I didn't think."

The metal hand slides away, dropping to Bucky's side. Bucky undoes his pants as Steve turns around, nearly toppling over as he struggles out of them and his undershorts. He pads across to the tub, turning off the faucet as the water laps at the sides. He sinks in, the hot water seeping into his aching muscles and making him let out a sigh as he relaxes, leaning back and resting his head on the lip. Steve kneels down next to him, arms crossed on the edge.

"Better?"

Bucky nods slowly, the water stinging his burns but feeling heavenly on all his aches and pains. 

"Can I wash your hair, like you used to do for me? You've got a fair amount of blood in there."

Bucky nods again. He hears Steve root around for something before coming back with a cup, dipping it in the water. He puts a hand over Bucky's forehead to shield his eyes as he starts pouring it over his head, Bucky feeling the flakes of dried blood start to wash away. Steve takes a washcloth and dabs carefully at the blood on his face and temple, trying to be gentle around the lump there. Bucky doesn't flinch, everything feeling hazy and numb and distant. There's the click of a shampoo bottle and Steve's fingers knead into his scalp, Bucky's eyes slipping closed as he goes boneless under the sensation. Steve avoids the head wounds, staying towards the back of his head as his works his fingers in gentle motions, humming softly. Bucky feels weightless, sinking deeper into calm nothingness as Steve continues to work, rinsing his hair. He shifts behind Bucky, right arm dangling over the edge of the tub and skimming the water next to Bucky's shoulder. 

"You want to feed?"

Bucky nods. Steve brings his wrist up to Bucky's mouth, chest almost pressing to Bucky's head where it lies on the lip of the tub. Bucky ignores the frisson of panic and focuses on Steve's wrist, fangs coming down before he sinks them into the warm flesh. Relief rushes through him, chasing away the pain. He allows himself to drink only a few mouthfuls, knowing it's enough to let him heal. He'd fed only yesterday morning. It seems so far away now. He withdraws his fangs, licking over the wound before slumping again, exhaustion dragging at him. 

"I'm going to get you clothes," Steve murmurs. He moves across the bathroom and disappears, Bucky hearing him go into Bucky's room and rifle through drawers. He returns a minute later, setting the pile down and grabbing a towel. "Come on, let's get you out."

Bucky pushes himself up using the sides of the tub, stepping out and letting Steve wrap a towel around him. He dries off and then pulls on the clothes, the pants soft and comfortable against his skin. 

"We should re-bandage those burns," Steve says. He pats the toilet. "And look at your head. Sit down. I'll grab Sam. He's better at this stuff."

Bucky sits down, shirt still off and hair dripping onto his shoulders as Steve disappears again. He reappears with Sam a minute later, Sam's expression equally worried as he sets down the first-aid kit on the counter. 

"Hey Barnes. You doing alright?"

Bucky doesn't reply. He's not sure what alright would mean, right now. 

Sam leans down in front of him, hands on his knees. "Hey, can you look at me?"

Bucky drags his gaze up to Sam's. Sam searches his eyes. There's a lump on his temple to rival Bucky's, and the faint outlines of fingers on his jaw and throat.

"Okay, I'm not sure if this is just a reaction to everything or if you're more concussed than we thought. Can you let me have a look at your head?"

Bucky nods slowly, eyes drifting away from Sam's again. There's the click of a light.

"Look straight ahead."

He stares ahead blankly as Sam passes the light in front of his eyes. The light clicks off.

"I'm going to touch your head now. Just tell me to stop if you need to."

Gentle fingers palpate his temples, finding the lump and moving backwards across his scalp in practiced motions. 

"Any dizziness?"

He shakes his head slightly.

"It hurt to do that?"

He nods.

"Okay, well, you don't have to do that. Can you hold up one finger for yes, two for no?"

He holds up one finger.

"Good. Alright, you know your name?"

He holds up one finger.  _Yes._

"And the year?"

_Yes._

"Any confusion, disorientation?"

He hesitates before holding up two fingers.  _No._ Not really. Just...blankness.

Sam sighs, hands on his knees as he bends down to Bucky's level again. "Alright, well, with your healing your head's probably fine. If it were anyone else I'd be concerned, but we'll just keep an eye on you. I'm sure being triggered didn't help any matters in the head region."

Bucky holds up two fingers.  _No._

Sam frowns, thinking. "Did the triggers make your head hurt?"

_Yes._

Sam grimaces. "I'd really like a scan of your brain, but I don't want to put you through that right now. We'll see how everything goes. Let's have a look at those burns."

He takes more bandages, peering at the burns and nodding before sticking them on.

"These should heal quickly now that you've fed. Any other injuries?"

Bucky taps a finger over his shoulder, at his back.

"Your back?"

_Yes._

"Okay, can you turn?"

Bucky turns sideways on the seat, letting Sam see his back. Steve sucks in a breath.

"This wasn't bandaged. The doctor didn't see it?"

_No._

"Why didn't you say anything?"

Bucky stays silent. He's not even sure, now. He just hadn't.

Sam sticks another bandage onto it, patting it down. "Well, now that should feel better. That it?"

_Yes._

Steve hands him a shirt and Bucky pulls it on, swiveling back around to face forward.

"Did you sleep at all last night?" Steve asks.

_No._ He thinks of jerking awake once and amends his answer.  _Yes._

"Not much, huh?"

_No._

"You should get some rest. Come on."

Bucky follows Steve and Sam out of the bathroom and to the couch, pulling off the blanket and wrapping it around himself as he lays down. Sam crouches next to the couch, at eye level.

"Hey, so it seems like you're a little out of it right now. A bit dissociated?"

He worms one hand out from the blankets.  _Yes._

Sam nods. "That's understandable. A lot happened, and you weren't able to process any of it. It's probably too much for your brain to handle right now. Just know, at some point it's all going to come back. You've been through a pretty serious trauma, being triggered again. That can't have been fun. When it finally catches up with you, it's going to suck. Really suck. But I'm going to be right here, and so is Steve. You don't have to go through this alone."

Bucky blinks. Sam sighs before straightening up. 

"Get some rest."

His footsteps recede and Bucky closes his eyes, sinking into sleep. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for a suicide attempt. If you're feeling this way, please reach out to someone. You can call 1-800-273-8255 or text HOME to 741741. There's a minor attempt after the first nightmare and the major attempt is after the second nightmare, if you need to skip them. Bucky is still feeling the effects of the trigger, and that plus the logic of no one being able to control him and make him hurt anyone if he's dead lead to this.

_-His fist cracks against Steve's cheekbone and he is screaming, pleading for it to stop but his body moves on its own, a puppet on strings, Steve's face snapping back with the blows._

_"Bucky," Steve says, voice calm and soothing._

_The metal fist wraps around Steve's throat and squeezes, and Steve chokes underneath him, eyes blue and sad. Bucky screams inside his head, trying to make his hand loosen, but it only squeezes harder and Steve chokes and then goes still, glassy eyes still fixed on him as his heart stops. There are hands on him, pulling him away, and his body turns, metal fist lashing out at Sam and sending him crumpling to the ground. Sam lays still but his head turns, eyes fixing on Bucky._

_"Barnes. Hey, it's just me."_

_Bucky advances and kneels over him, knee pressed to his chest. 'Stop!' he tries to scream. "Stop, no, please-'_

_Nothing comes out of his mouth. The metal hand wraps around Sam's throat and with a jerk Sam's neck snaps. Bucky screams silently, raging against his body, beating his fists against the walls of the cell, trapped in his mind. He looks and sees Natalia sprawled on the ground next to Sam, blood trailing from her mouth. Tony is lying a little ways away, the armor on his hand crushed and broken and eyes staring at nothing. Footsteps sound and the handler walks up, face morphing and twisting. He is Lukin, he is Karpov, he is Pierce, he is Rumlow-_

_"Good job, soldier," he says, voice echoing and distorted._

_Bucky feels his mouth move. "Ready to comply."_

_He screams inside his head desperately, trapped, unable to do anything, his friends lying dead around him-_

He jerks awake screaming. He gasps and chokes, panic whiting out his vision as he shakes, head pounding and whirling.

"Bucky. Bucky. You're okay."

He flinches away from the voice, clutching his head as he hyperventilates. No, no, not Steve, he can't hurt Steve, Steve-Steve was-is dead, he killed him-

"Barnes, hey, no one's gonna hurt you. It was just a dream."

 _Sam._ He killed Sam too, snapped his neck, he killed them all, this isn't-this isn't real, they're dead, he killed them, they were his mission, he is-he is the Winter Soldier. He is a skilled operative. He serves Russia and Hydra. He is not human. He does not question. He-wait, no, that's-that's not right-

 _"Please,"_ he says.  _"Please, I'm sorry, I don't know, I don't know, make it stop, please-"_

"I don't know Russian, Barnes."

His head is splitting, fragments and flashes whirling and he doesn't know what's happening, who is he, where is he, what is happening, he is-he is Russian, no, he's America, he is Hydra,  _Hydra is bad,_ Bucky, he's Bucky- _He doesn't have a name-_ Steve, he knows that, but he- _he killed Steve, he's dead, Steve is dead-_ he remembers, no, he doesn't remember, he doesn't know anything-

He digs his fingers into his temples, a scream leaving him through gritted teeth.

 _"Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop-"_ he chokes out.

"Jarvis, can you translate?"

"He appears to be repeating, 'make it stop' in Russian."

There's an intake of breath. "Bucky. Bucky, it's me. You're safe."

 _"I killed him,"_ he sobs.  _"I killed them. I couldn't stop it, I can't, make it stop-"_

"He says, 'I killed him. I killed them. I couldn't stop it, I can't, make it stop,'" a voice translates.

"Bucky, it wasn't you."

"I know!" he screams, shoving the Russian and the soldier aside in his mind as they battle for dominance. "It wasn't-it wasn't me, I couldn't-I couldn't do anything, I couldn't, I-I  _watched,_ I tried, it wouldn't, it wouldn't stop, I wouldn't stop, I couldn't make-I couldn't do anything, I watched it and I couldn't-I killed them-"

He realizes he can move, he has control of his body for an instant and he wraps the metal hand around his throat, squeezing. He can't let it happen again, he has to stop himself-

"Bucky!"

"Whoah-"

"Buck, stop!"

"I wouldn't....stop," he chokes out. "I couldn't...make myself...stop, I watched...I was...in there...I couldn't-I couldn't do anything....have to...stop...make it-"

He squeezes his eyes shut, wheezing as the metal hand cuts off his air. There are hands on it, trying to pry it off, and he lashes out at them with his other arm, tightening his grip. Hands pin him down on the couch and someone restrains his right arm as someone else tries to pry off his metal hand.

"Bucky. Bucky, let go. Please. We can work this out."

There are black spots dancing in front of his eyes. There's a breath and then someone  _yanks,_ pulling his metal hand away with a grunt. He strains, but the grip around his wrist holds fast, pinning it down to the couch. He thrashes, trying to break free as he screams. There's footsteps and a heavy weight lands on his legs, more hands pinning him down.

"Yasha-"

He's trapped, hands everywhere, panic cresting in his mind as it splits apart. _Make it stop make it stop make it stop_ -

Something snaps in his mind and he goes limp, retreating into blankness.

***

He blinks, the world resolving in his vision. He's laying on the couch, the ceiling above him and a blanket thrown over him. He can sense people in the room, breathing evenly, a low murmur of voices in his ears. He sits up, bringing a hand to his head as pain lances through it and the world spins, Bucky squeezing his eyes shut against the feeling. The murmur stops.

"Bucky?"

He cracks open his eyes, figures blurring in his vision. He blinks and they come into focus, Steve, Sam, Natalia, and Tony all sitting on the floor clustered around the coffee table and watching him with worried eyes. He squints.

"What's going on?" His voice is no more than a whisper and he realizes his throat is painful, like he's been choked. He brings a hand up to it and everyone tenses. He frowns. "What happened?"

Steve looks cautious. "You don't remember?"

"I..." He thinks, memories trickling back in. There was the CIA, the psychologist....being triggered...a lawyer, a courtroom, flashes of Steve washing his hair, and then...." His head pounds as he prods his mind, trying to remember. There was something, a nightmare? And then...panic, mind splitting as the soldier tried to take over, confusion, his hand around his throat, hands holding him down....It feels like a dream, smudged and distorted on the edges of his memory. 

"I...remember," he says. "A little. But I don't...I don't know." He rubs his temple, head aching. "I think the...the trigger did something. To my head. I wasn't...me, and then I was, but it's all..." He waves a hand, dropping it into his lap.

"Mixed up?" Sam supplies.

He nods. 

"But you remember choking yourself?"

He frowns. "I...flashes? I don't know-" He cuts off as the memory comes back, the nightmare, the panic, being trapped in his body. "Oh god." He pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply.

"What?"

He drops his hand, taking a breath. "I had...a dream. I killed all of you, only I-I was in my head, trapped, and I couldn't stop it. I watched myself...kill everyone, and then I woke up, but I thought it was real, I didn't know it was a dream....and somehow the trigger was still active and I didn't know who I was, but then...then I did? Sort of, but not really. The only thing I knew was that I killed everyone, that I didn't have control of my body, so I tried to...stop myself." He hunches, looking down. 

"That must have been scary, not feeling in control of your body," Sam says carefully. "And not knowing it was a dream. It's understandable you panicked."

Bucky shrugs, wanting this to be over, feeling unsettled and irritated and not quite himself. "It was just a dream," he says shortly. "I'm fine now. The trigger's gone."

"Did it feel that way when you were triggered?" Sam questions. "Like you weren't in control of your body, but you were still in there?"

He shrugs, then shakes his head, still looking down. "Not really, when it was happening. I just...wasn't myself. Didn't know. Remembering it, though, it doesn't-it doesn't feel like me. I watch it, and I don't-" He cuts off, swallowing. "It wasn't me."  _That's a lie,_ something tells him. It was him. It was him but given the wrong information, told to follow the wrong person. He didn't know, but it was still him. 

"Does you head still hurt?"

"Yeah."

"But you don't feel...triggered?"

"No."

"Well, that's good at least. You're not going to try and hurt yourself again?"

He looks up at Sam. "No."

Sam nods. "Well, I guess all we can do is wait and see, and keep an eye on you. Hopefully the trigger won't come back, but all this is way out of my depth. I have no idea how these things work."

"Can we get a neurologist on board?" Tony interjects. "It would help with your trial, too. Show your brain was actually fucked with."

Bucky shrugs. "Sure." He would like to know he's not going to snap and try to kill anyone again. 

Tony gets up. "I'll start looking for one. Don't worry, they'll be vetted thoroughly. Far better than the CIA vetted that psychologist..." He trails off. "Well, glad you're back to normal. Come up to the workshop anytime."

He flees across the room and into the elevator. 

"I think you scared him," Natalia muses. 

"I did try to kill him."

Natalia shakes her head. "No, not that. Well, partly, but not for the reason you think. I meant earlier. He's not good with feelings. You're his friend, and he had to hurt you pretty bad to stop you from killing him, and then hold you down to stop you from killing yourself."

Bucky swallows, looking down. "Oh." He hadn't thought about how hard it must have been for his friends. God, he's a wreck.

He feels Steve sit down on the couch next to him. He can't look at him, remembering trying to kill him. Again. Twice, no-three times he's tried to kill Steve. For all he wants to protect Steve, it is  _him_ that has been the greatest threat the entire time. He should never have come in. He should've let himself die from that bullet wound, should've spared Steve all these weeks of suffering. Should have ensured that he would never hurt Steve ever again. He should now. The psychologist is still out there with the book. He, or anyone with it can control Bucky with ten words. They can make him hurt Steve, hurt his friends. Kill them. The nightmare was real, after all. It  _could_ be real. 

"What are you thinking?" Steve questions softly.

Bucky clenches his jaw. "Nothing." He shifts over and curls into the corner of the couch, away from Steve. He feels the weight of all three gazes on him, their concern making guilt roll in his stomach. He'd almost killed all of them. He will, eventually. Hydra will find him. They always do.

***

Steve sits on the couch sketching, Sam reading in the armchair and Natalia sitting on the floor with her back to the couch under Bucky, typing lines of code into a tablet. Bucky's still curled into the corner of the couch, nursing his headache and dozing off occasionally. The late afternoon sun filters through the window, making Steve's hair shine golden as if haloed with light, a beacon of goodness. 

Natalia breaks the silence without looking up from her tablet, voice quiet.  _"What are you thinking, Yasha?"_

_"Nothing."_

_"I know that's not true. You are always thinking."_

_"It doesn't matter."_

She hums.  _"It does to me. And to Steve, and Sam, and even Tony. They all care about you."_

 _"I know,"_ he says shortly. 

_"Ah. That's what bothers you."_

He scowls.  _"Why would that bother me?"_

_"Because you think they shouldn't. You think you aren't worth it."_

He shifts uncomfortably.

 _"I know, Yasha,"_ she says, something strained in her voice.  _"I've been where you are. I followed the wrong people, did wrong things. I was a weapon, too. And when Shield took me in, and I realized what I'd done, I didn't think I deserved it. I didn't think I deserved Clint's friendship, or Fury's acceptance. I had red in my ledger, and I wanted to wipe it out, but I didn't think I deserved any goodness. Until I met Steve. I thought, if Captain America trusts me, that must count for something, right? If he wants me as a friend, maybe there's hope. And then I met Sharon. I told Steve to pursue her, but it turns out she wasn't his type, and he wasn't hers. And she's...she's the first real thing I've had in years. She's good, and she makes me feel like I can be good too. It doesn't erase what I've done, but just because I did those things doesn't mean I don't deserve good things now. And you...you never did any of those things of your own free will, like I did. I trusted the wrong people, but they forced you. They erased you. You are a good man, James. You're not what they made you. And you deserve good things. Don't shut your friends out."_  

Bucky blinks, feeling a lump in his throat.  _"When did you get so smart?"_

Natalia scoffs.  _"Please, I've always been smarter than you."_

He sighs.  _"Yeah. Yeah that's true."_ He pauses.  _"You and Sharon?"_

_"Me and Sharon. No one else knows."_

_"I won't tell."_ He smiles slightly.  _"It will be our secret."_

***

Natalia goes back to her floor for the night, leaving Steve, Sam, and Bucky alone. 

"How are you doing?" Sam asks.

"Fine."

Sam raises an eyebrow. "I wasn't born yesterday, Barnes. Don't bullshit me."

Bucky scowls. "What do you want me to say?"

"Anything. You haven't talked at all about what happened. How did it make you feel?"

"How do you think?" he snaps.

"Nope. Don't you turn that question around on me."

"It happened, it sucked, it's over," Bucky says shortly. "End of story."

"That doesn't sound like feelings to me. That sounds like a shitty action report. What do you think, Steve?"

Steve crosses his arms. "I agree with Sam. You haven't even looked at me all day."

"Not everything's about you, Rogers," Bucky growls.

"You're still not looking at me."

Bucky turns to glare at Steve. "Happy?"

Steve searches his eyes. "No. Talk to me, Buck."

"What if I don't  _want_ to?" he challenges.

Steve shrugs. "Then talk to Sam. But you gotta talk to someone."

Bucky curls his lip. "Make me."

"Is that what you want?" Sam asks. 

Bucky blinks, gaze swinging to him. "What?"

"You want someone to make you do something?"

"I-no." He blinks, confused.

"But that's what just happened. Someone made you do something you didn't want to, and you felt like you weren't in control. It bothered you so much you had a nightmare about it and tried to choke yourself."

He tries to regain his facade, scowling again. "So?"

Sam raises an eyebrow. "So...you really need to talk about it with someone. It's not just going to go away."

"You don't know that."

"Yes I do. I've had a lot more experience with these things than you."

Bucky narrows his eyes. "You don't know  _shit_ about me."

"But _I_ do," Steve says. "I know you better than you know yourself. Remember our conversation?"

"I do remember  _some_ things," he bites out.

Steve doesn't miss a beat. "So that's a yes. You always do this. You tell everyone you're fine, but you're not. And it eats you up inside."

He presses his lips together. He knows he's cornered. They both know exactly how hard to press him to get him to talk. "I don't want to talk about it," he tries, his last recourse.

"Then we're going to sit here until you do," Sam replies calmly. 

 _Fuck._ His metal arm whirs as he curls the hand into a fist. "You want to know how it made me feel?" he snarls. "Someone took over my mind with ten words and made me hurt people! I almost killed my friends. I almost killed Steve,  _again._ I couldn't do  _anything._ I was fucking...gone. But I _remember_! I remember doing all of it, it was me, but I couldn't-I couldn't stop it, I didn't stop, I didn't even...fucking know, I thought-I...And he's still out there, with that fucking book, and he can do it again. They'll make me-they'll-" He heaves for breath. "I can't even.... _fucking..._ trust my own mind! It's not-I can't-I can't-" He's shaking, breaths coming in gasps, and panic builds, Bucky struggling to breathe as his vision goes dark.

"-breathe, with me. In....out......in...out....good. Just like that." Bucky shudders and breathes, squeezing his eyes shut. He pinches the bridge of his nose, head pounding and making sparks shoot behind his eyes. He feels like he might shake apart, like his body is fragile as glass. It doesn't feel like his. Ever since he woke from the trigger it's felt like his body isn't his, like every movement he makes doesn't quite register, a lag between thought and response. Like he's not in control. His thoughts are scattered and distorted, all his carefully restored memories foggy and unclear again. His head feels like it's splitting, and he can feel the soldier in the back of his mind, can feel the blankness waiting to overtake him. The trigger words whisper through his mind, sneaking over thoughts and memories and feelings and squeezing, choking. Strangling him. Erasing him.

"That was a lot," Sam says. "It's understandable to feel this way. That was a really traumatic experience."

"I don't...feel like me," Bucky chokes out. "Like I'm not..."

"In control?" Sam finishes.

Bucky nods. "Everything is...wrong. Like I'm not real. And my head is...messed up. My memories. The trigger words are still there. They won't go away."

"Wait, are you still feeling triggered?" Steve questions.

"No. I don't know. I'm me, but..." He shrugs, frustrated. "I just feel wrong."

"Maybe you're feeling dissociated," Sam suggests. "Like you told me a while back. You don't feel like your body is yours. Like it's not real."

He nods. "Yeah. That's-that's it."

"Okay, can you remember some of the things we did to help with that?"

He nods.

"Good. Let's run through them real quick, see if it helps."

***

He slumps against the couch, exhaling. Steve sits down next to him, Sam having gone to bed. 

"You okay?"

He shrugs. "I don't know."

Steve nods. "It'll take a while. You don't have to be okay right now."

"Where'd you get that from?"

Steve smiles wryly. "Self-help forum."

Bucky chuckles. He sits up, reaching out for Steve. "Can you...it'll help. Feel real."

Steve wraps a hand around his, the contact grounding. Bucky shifts closer, pulling Steve against him until their noses brush. He leans in, pressing his lips against Steve's. It starts slow and chaste but Bucky feels a desperate urge to be closer, to make himself feel real. He deepens the kiss, pressing closer to Steve and bringing his hands up to fist in his shirt. Steve kisses back, heart rate quickening in Bucky's ears. His hands are at his side, not touching Bucky, and Bucky grabs them, shoving Steve back against the couch and pinning his hands next to his head, fingers interlaced. He nudges Steve's legs open, settling between them as he kisses Steve desperately, needing more. He needs to feel real. He needs Steve. They break the kiss to breathe, Steve's eyes dark and dilated.

"Wait," Steve pants. "Are you-are you okay?"

"Shut up," Bucky whispers, kissing Steve again to silence his protest. He's trembling faintly, mind full of static and skin crawling. He presses against Steve harder, rolling his hips and making him gasp.

"Bucky-"

He growls against Steve's lips, feeling strange and unreal. He's...angry, and yet numb, distant and fractured. His head pounds and his skin crawls and he wants to push Steve away but he wants to be closer, wants to make this feeling stop and-and prove he's not broken, he can do this, he needs to do this for Steve, one more time-

Steve squeezes his hands, pushing against them. "Bucky. Stop."

Bucky pauses, looking down at Steve. "What?"

Steve's brow furrows as he looks up at him. "You aren't-something's not right. And you're shaking."

Bucky grits his teeth. "So?"

"So...I don't think we should do this. You're not in your right mind."

Bucky shoves away from Steve, feeling tears prick his eyes unexpectedly as he presses himself into the opposite corner of the couch. "My right mind," he repeats flatly.

Steve straightens up slowly, as if afraid to spook him. "Bad choice of words. But you don't seem okay. It's been a very stressful couple of days. Let's just...wait a bit."

Bucky nods numbly. "Sure."

"Bucky-"

"No, it's fine." He clenches his jaw. "I get it."

"Hey." Steve gets up, coming to crouch down next to the couch, peering up at him. Bucky looks away. Steve reaches out to grab his hand and Bucky flinches, pulling it back. Steve sighs. "Sorry. Just-look at me?"

Bucky looks at him, trying to restrain the tears that prick his eyes. Steve's are soft and worried as they search his, blonde hair slightly mussed on his forehead.

"I love you," he says softly. "You know that, right? I'm here for you. You can always talk to me, about anything."

Bucky swallows and nods. "I know. I love you too," he adds, voice no more than a whisper. It feels sacred, as if he'll never say it again. He reaches out and squeezes Steve's hand. "Go."

Steve nods, bringing up his hand to press a kiss to it before leaving. Bucky settles back against the couch, a hole opening up in his chest.

***

_-His fist cracks against Steve's cheekbone._

_"You're! My! Mission!-"_

_-Steve falls away-_

_-He shoves Steve through the elevator doors, watching him fall-_

_-He kicks Sam over the edge of the Helicarrier-_

_-He throws Sam into the cube and Sam crumples to the floor, unmoving-_

_-"Soldier-"_

_-The man opens the red book-_

_-"Bucky!-"_

_-The chair releases him and he jerks and pants, body trembling. A voice speaks behind him, circling._

_"Longing."_

_'No!' he screams silently, helplessly._

_"Rusted."_

_'Please,' he thinks. 'Please.'_

_"Seventeen."_

_He beats on the wall of the cell, fingers making bloody trails._

_"Daybreak."_

_He screams, but nothing happens. No one hears him._

_"Furnace."_

_He crumples to the floor, sobbing, fingers still scrabbling at the walls._

_"Nine."_

_The room grows dark._

_"Benign."_

_He curls into the corner of the cell, letting his hands drop._

_"Homecoming."_

_There is no escape. There is no one to hear him. He is nothing._

_"One."_

_He goes limp, giving up._

_"Freight car."_

_His eyes flick to Lukin. In the cell, Bucky screams one last time, helpless and broken._

_"Good morning, soldier."_

_His mouth moves. "Ready to comply-"_

He wakes. He lays there, staring at the ceiling blankly. Natalia's words rattle around his mind. He knows...he knows that maybe he does deserve good things, that his friends care about him, but that doesn't erase the fact that he is still a ticking time bomb. Natalia was right. He didn't do things of his own free will. They took hold of his mind, controlled him, and they can do it again just as easily. Whether he deserves a life is irrelevant. He deserves not to be made to kill his friends. That would break him. The world deserves not to have to worry about him. He's dangerous. Anyone else, it wouldn't matter. The damage they could do is minimal. But he's not even human. He could take out entire buildings of people, start wars, dismantle governments one kill at a time. He's a weapon of mass destruction. He shouldn't be allowed to just sit around while someone else holds the trigger to set him off. It doesn't matter what he deserves. He can't let his nightmare come true. No one can control him if he's dead. Hydra will fall, eventually, and his friends will be sad but will have each other. They'll be okay. They'll be alive. 

Everything feels distant and numb as he gets up, moving stiffly. His body is not his own. He creeps down the hall into the bathroom, locking the door quietly behind him. He feels flat, cold, nothing existing except for calm determination. He has calculated the optimal strategy, and this is it. He opens the bathroom cabinet, finding the straight razor that Steve still keeps for nostalgia. He moves to the tub and sits in it, not wanting to make a mess on the tile. This will be easy to clean. He must make sure he bleeds out completely, or it will be easy to revive him. Blood is the answer, he thinks. That is his life force. Nothing else will kill him.

He feels nothing. This is the optimal strategy.

He leans back against the tub and grips the razor in his metal hand, bringing it to his right wrist and locating the artery. He slices it open with practiced skill, letting his head tip back to rest against the edge of the tub and closing his eyes. His hands drop to his sides, razor slipping from the metal hand. He sighs, feeling blood run over his hand to pool in the bottom of the tub as coldness creeps up his body. He can finally rest.  _Good job, soldier._

Everything goes numb and he falls into darkness.

***

There are hands on him, something wrapped around his wrist and voices swirling in his ears. 

"-god, Bucky-"

"-no-"

Something warm is pressed to his mouth, hunger bringing him back to awareness slightly as he smells the blood under the thin skin.

"Come on, Buck, feed-"

He clamps his mouth shut, turning his head away slightly, fading in and out of consciousness. There's a slicing sound and then the smell of blood stings his nose. Hands grab his head, holding it still. Someone pinches his nose shut and he opens his mouth on instinct, a wrist immediately pressed to it and warm blood trickling into his mouth. He tries to struggle but can't, too weak, and settles for not swallowing. He chokes on the blood and a hand strokes his throat, making him swallow convulsively. Distorted voices swirl around him.

"-on their way-"

"-hang on, Buck-"

Footsteps sound and there are hands on him, lifting his arm. Something pricks the crook of his elbow and the wrist is pulled from his mouth, blood spilling over his lips. A hand strokes his hair and the world fades away again as he sinks back into darkness.

   


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Steve doesn't have a good reaction to this, and what he says isn't right, but it's understandable coming from a place of trauma and guilt. He has a lot of issues as well, and he's just as human as anyone else. He isn't always perfect.

He wakes slowly, the sound of someone breathing steadily close by as he comes back to awareness. He's lying on something soft, what feels like a needle taped to his hand and a blanket over him, his body tilted slightly upright. His wrist throbs and he can feel bandages wrapped around it. He cracks open his eyes, blinking as a white ceiling swims in his vision. The breathing next to him changes.

"Buck?"

He turns his head to the right, Steve's face blurring in his vision. He looks like he's been crying, eyes red and bloodshot with dark circles under them, and Bucky frowns slightly as his thoughts churn slowly, mind still hazy. He is...not on the couch. Where is he? Why does Steve look like that?

The memories start to trickle back, making him freeze. Oh god. He'd-he'd tried to kill himself. Why had he done that? The memory feels like looking through a blurry lens, distant and muted. It had seemed so logical then, but... _why had he done that?_ He hadn't even said goodbye to his friends, or left a note. Just...tried to eliminate himself. Like he was a target.

Steve is still looking at him with a pained expression and Bucky feels guilt well up. Maybe it had been logical, maybe he had been right, but he never should have left Steve like that. He shouldn't have made him have to find him like that, to not get to say goodbye. God knows Steve will find a way to blame himself for this.

"Buck?" Steve repeats quietly. "Can you hear me?"

"I'm sorry," Bucky croaks, feeling tears well up. "I'm sorry." He tries to reach out and Steve's hand folds around his, gripping tightly as his own eyes grow wet.

"Why?" Steve chokes out. "Why did you-"

Bucky shakes his head, biting his lip. "I don't-I don't know. I thought...I don't know." He takes a breath, trying to order his thoughts. "I thought...no one could control me if I was dead. They couldn't make me hurt you."

Steve's grip on his hand is almost painful. "Why didn't you..say something? We could have worked it out. You don't have to do that. We'll make sure it doesn't happen again."

Bucky feels tears slip down his face. "But it  _will._ They always-they always find me. And I can't-I can't hurt you again. I can't."

"And what, you think you dying wouldn't hurt me  _more?_ I'd rather you kill me." Steve's jaw is set, eyes sparking with anger.

Bucky flinches. "Don't say that."

"Why not? Don't like the idea of me dying? Well guess what, that goes both ways! _You_ almost died _._ You think I'm okay with that? You think that didn't hurt me?"

Bucky's chin trembles. "I didn't-I didn't think-"

"No, you didn't think! You didn't think about the fact that I've already lost you once. I can't-" Steve's voice breaks. "I can't do it again."

"I'm sorry," Bucky chokes out. "I'm sorry, I don't-I don't know why-"

Steve cuts him off, face stony. "No. No, you know exactly why. You care so much about keeping me alive that you don't care how much you have to hurt me to do it." He removes his hand from Bucky's and stands up. "I think I need some time. And you need to think about whether you really love me, or are just pretending to." Bucky feels the breath rush out of him as the knife sinks into his heart. Steve turns, walking away.

"Steve-" Bucky tries, broken and pleading.

Steve keeps walking, not looking back. Bucky squeezes his eyes closed, a sob wrenching from his chest as his heart shatters.

***

Sam walks into the room, sinking down into Steve's vacated chair. Bucky stares at the ceiling, feeling cold and numb. Steve hates him. He's right. Bucky hates himself for what he did.

Sam stays silent, waiting for Bucky to speak first. 

"Do you hate me too?" Bucky rasps.

"What? Barnes, of course I don't hate you. Why would you think that?"

Bucky blinks away the tears that threaten to start again. "Steve does."

"Barnes, Steve thinks you hang the moon. I'm pretty sure he doesn't hate you. But he looked pretty upset after he left here. What happened?"

"He was...angry. I hurt him. He said I-that I care so much about keeping him alive that I don't care how much I have to hurt him to do it. And then he said-" Bucky swallows. "He said he needs time, and that I-that I need to think about if I'm pretending to love him."

Sam takes a breath. "Ohh...kay. Alright. That's...not okay. He's hurting right now, but he shouldn't have said those things to you. I'm guessing you feel bad enough already."

Bucky swallows down another sob. "I don't-I don't know why I did it, I-I'm not lying, it just...it seemed so...logical, but I didn't-I didn't want to do it, like that, I don't-I don't know-"

"I believe you. Most people regret their attempts right after. They're usually very impulsive. Can you remember what prompted you? You seemed fairly okay after we talked, unless that was a lie?"

He shakes his head. "No. I was-I was feeling better, a little. I...had the thought, but I wasn't going to do anything." He frowns, trying to remember. "I had...a nightmare, I think. I don't remember. Everything's...fuzzy. I remember thinking that it was the...optimal strategy. That I was too dangerous, and I'd end up killing everyone eventually, so I had to be eliminated. I wasn't...upset. I was just...calm. I got up, and I went into the bathroom, and then I did it. I didn't even...think of...saying goodbye, or anything. I wasn't upset. I just...did it. I don't know why." He finally looks at Sam, gauging his reaction.

Sam taps a finger on his chin. "Hmm. That is a little...strange. You said the words 'optimal strategy.' That sounds like six weeks ago you, not now you. Like this was simply calculating the best outcome."

"Yeah. That's-that's exactly what I did."

"And the memory is fuzzy? Like when you were triggered?"

Bucky frowns. "Yeah. Actually-yeah. Exactly like that."

Sam thinks a moment longer. "You remember what you said, the first day we found you? You said you had a mission."

Bucky nods. "Protect Steve." The name sends a stab of pain through his chest.

"I'm thinking...." Sam holds up a hand. "I may be wrong, but just hear me out. You weren't feeling right, like the trigger was still active. The last time you woke up from a nightmare you said you felt triggered again, and you tried to choke yourself to death. Could it be, you woke up from a nightmare in Winter Soldier mindset again, and you saw your death as the best way to ensure Steve's safety? Like, you were operating within mission parameters and saw yourself as a target."

"Oh," Bucky breathes. He blinks, eyes widening. "Oh..."

"I'll take that as a yes."

He nods. "Yeah. I was still...kinda me, because I had my memories, but I felt...dissociated. The reasoning was my own, at first, but then everything just went..blank."

"It sounds like that trigger did a lot more damage than we thought," Sam notes. "I definitely want you to be seen by a neurologist. And a psychologist, though I know the last time didn't go so well. It sounds like you were already having thoughts, but it was being partially triggered that made you act on them."

Bucky nods. "Yeah."

"We can work with that. At least we know what's going on. We'll know to keep a closer eye on you in case you're not yourself."

"I don't feel like myself," Bucky confesses. "Since the trigger. I'm just...not right. I thought it went away, but it hasn't. It's still there. I can...feel it, in the back of my mind."

"That's something to bring up with the neurologist." Sam clasps his hands, leaning on the edge of the bed. He looks tired as well, face too pale and eyes drooping with exhaustion. 

"I'm sorry," Bucky says. "I hurt you too."

Sam smiles slightly, though it looks more like a grimace. "Yeah, it was scary seeing you like that. I, uh-" He takes a breath. "I lost someone, a while back. My wingman, Riley. Knocked right outta the air by an RPG. I gotta be honest, when Jarvis woke me up, and then I saw you....I was terrified. I can't lose you, Barnes." He cracks a teasing smile. "Especially when I've just started to like you."

Bucky smiles despite himself. "Thanks. And thank you for...listening. Understanding."

Sam's mouth flattens into a thin line. "I'll speak with Steve. You just focus on getting better. You're all patched up and we've got blood in you, but you should stay put for a while. You're going to need to be put on 24 hour watch until we figure out the trigger and make sure you're not having any thoughts of harming yourself, understood?"

Bucky nods. "Yeah."

"Good. Alright, I'm going to go yell at a super-soldier. I'll send Natasha in." He pats the bed before getting up. "I'm glad you're alive. Don't worry, we'll figure this out. For now, you're safe here."

He leaves Bucky feeling better than before, though his heart still aches from Steve's words. He looks around the room, taking in the white walls and the medical equipment all around, an IV leading from his hand to a bag of blood that's dripping slowly, a screen reading out his vitals. He's in a hospital bed, the back tilted up so he's almost sitting and a blanket thrown over the white scrubs he's wearing. There's a bandage around his right wrist, and it aches and tingles but feels like it's healing. The door opens and Natalia steps through, expression closed off as she sits down in the vacated chair. 

"I'm sorry," Bucky says, before she can say anything.

Natalia bites her lip. "Why, James? I thought...after I said.."

Bucky sighs. "It's complicated. I thought-I had been thinking that Hydra would find me, that they would make me hurt people again, and that-that maybe it would be safer for everyone if I was gone." He looks at Natalia. "No matter what I deserved. But I wasn't-I wasn't going to do anything, yet. I think...the trigger came back, in the night, and so...it was so logical. My mission is to protect Steve, and all of you. Eliminating myself had the highest odds of ensuring mission success. I wasn't myself. I wasn't thinking clearly."

Natalia is silent for a long moment. "I understand," she says softly. 

Bucky swallows. "I think you might be the only person who truly does."

Natalia's hand slips into his. "I know. The others don't know what it's like to think that way. Mission above everything. Calculation without emotion. And...you're not wrong. I won't lie to you, James. You are dangerous. If Hydra got control of you again, which they might, they would make you would hurt people. You might kill us. If I was who I was twenty years ago, I would put a gun to your head and pull the trigger myself. It's simple math." She takes a breath, squeezing his hand. "But I'm not who I was twenty years ago, and I don't care what the math says. I care about you, and I can't lose you again. Maybe that's selfish, for both of us, but it is what it is. Maybe we deserve to be a bit selfish, after everything. And just because it might happen doesn't mean it will. You've got some of the smartest and most powerful people in the world on your side. If they can't make sure you're safe, that the triggers are gone, no one can. But you have to let them try. Please, Yasha, for me? Can you try?"

Bucky exhales, squeezing her hand. "Yes. Anything for you,  _little spider."_ He pauses, worrying his lip. "Natashenka?"

"Yes?"

"If I did...if Hydra did get me again, if there was no other way....can you promise-" He swallows. "Can you promise you'll kill me before I hurt anyone?"

Natalia studies him. "Why me?"

"Because I know you'll do it, and you can live with it. Anyone else...I couldn't make them do that. But you understand." He meets her eyes. "You'd do the math."

Natalia nods, eyes tightening. "I promise."

***

Tony shuffles in a while later, looking awkward and unsure. He walks across the room to stand next to Natalia's chair, looking at Bucky.

"Hey, uh, glad to see you're okay."

Bucky nods. "Thanks. And sorry."

Tony waves a hand. "No, I heard about the...trigger stuff. You weren't thinking straight. Just wanted to drop in and see how you were doing."

"I'm okay. I guess we'll see."

"Oh yeah, I think I found a neurologist for you, and a psychologist. Super great, everything checked out. No Hydra connections. Should I call them in?"

Bucky nods. "Thank you."

"No need." Tony pauses, eyes scanning his. "Well, I'll go do that. Let me know if you need anything."

Bucky gives him a small smile. "I will."

Tony waves awkwardly at Natalia and hurries back across the room, disappearing through the door. Natalia turns to Bucky, lip twitching.

"I think he really cares about you. He was here while you were unconscious. Just about drove everyone crazy trying to help."

Bucky shakes his head. "I don't know why. He should hate me. I killed his parents."

"I wasn't you. Tony knows that. No, I think he genuinely likes you. He doesn't really have many friends. The way he shows affection is by throwing money at things."

Bucky chuckles slightly. "Yeah. He's a good friend, though."

"You have a lot of good friends. You're not alone, James."

***

Bucky laughs at Natalia's joke but cuts off as he senses Steve coming and looks up just as he steps through the door. They stare at each other for a minute before Natalia stands, patting Bucky's hand.

"I'm going to leave you two alone."

Bucky nods vaguely, gaze still trained on Steve. Natalia brushes past him, whispering something in his ear before leaving. Steve swallows and steps forward, gingerly sinking into the chair on Bucky's right. He looks down, wringing his hands together.

"I'm sorry," they both blurt at the same time. They both blink at each other, surprised, before breaking into laughter. Bucky reaches out and Steve grabs his hand, holding tight.

"Me first," he says. "I'm so sorry, Buck. I never should have said those things. I was scared and hurt and I took it out on you. I should've been supporting you." He sighs, rubbing his face with his free hand. "God, I fucked up. You were hurting, and you needed me, and I just made it worse. You were the one who tried to-to kill yourself, and I made it all about me. You didn't even...you weren't in your right mind. Sam told me. It wasn't your fault, and I blamed you. I didn't even try to listen. I was-I was stupid, and selfish, and-"

"Steve," Bucky cuts him off, squeezing his hand. "Steve, it's okay."

Steve shakes his head. "No, it wasn't. It wasn't."

Silence falls. Bucky worries his lip. "You don't-you don't hate me?" he says in a small voice.

Steve looks up, horrified. "What? No, of course not. Never. I could never hate you. I was  _scared._ I thought I was going to lose you again. I  _love_ you."

Bucky nods, feeling choked up. He'd known, deep down, but he needed to hear it. "I'm sorry," he starts.

"No, you have nothing to be sorry for-"

Bucky holds up a hand. "Let me speak." He takes a breath. "I'm sorry, because even though my head was a little fucked up, it was still me. _I_ had those thoughts. I still do.  _I'm_ scared, Steve. I'm scared that Hydra is going to find me again, and control me, and make me hurt people. Make me hurt you. I'm dangerous. I'm a ticking time bomb, and someone else holds the button. If I'm dead, they can't get me, and no one gets hurt. They can't make me into a weapon again. And I know-I know that hurts you, and I'm sorry, but I can't-I couldn't see any other way. I can't have that happen again, Steve. I can't do that. You're right, I am selfish, because if I killed you it would break me. If they took my will away again and made me do things, it would break me. Don't make me go through that again, Steve, please. I can't. I can't do it again, I can't-" He's crying in choked-off sobs, tears sliding down his face. 

"Come here," Steve murmurs. He leans forward and Steve wraps his arms around him, Bucky pressing his face into Steve's shoulder as he shakes with sobs. Steve's hand runs up and down his back soothingly, making him shiver and press closer. 

"You won't," Steve says softly, by his ear. "I promise. You won't have to go through that again. Whatever it takes. But that's not the only way. We'll figure it out, but you don't have to die. I don't care if we have to hide out in Antarctica and you have to wear earplugs the rest of your life. We'll find a way. Just don't leave me. Don't ever leave me again."

Bucky nods against Steve's shoulder. "I won't," he whispers. "I'm with you till the end of the line."

***

The door opens and Tony pops his head in, Bucky and Steve looking over. 

"Hey, the docs are here. You okay to see them?"

Bucky nods. "Yeah."

"Alright, I'll send them in. Don't worry, we'll be right outside." Tony disappears again.

"I'll be right here," Steve assures. "I won't let anything happen."

The door opens and two women step through, one taller and dark-skinned, with cropped black hair and warm brown eyes, and the other shorter, with olive skin and  sharp grey eyes under pulled back black hair, posture almost military. Steve stands, moving forward and extending a hand.

"Captain Rogers, it's a pleasure," the first says. "I'm Dr. Jones. Neurologist."

"Ma'm," Steve replies. He shakes her hand and moves to the shorter woman. 

"Dr. Zahir," she supplies. "Clinical psychologist."

"Thank you for coming."

Dr. Jones steps up to Bucky's bedside, extending a hand. "Sergeant Barnes. I'm Dr. Jones."

Bucky shakes her hand awkwardly, hampered by the IV in his hand and bandaged wrist. "Bucky," he corrects.

She smiles. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Bucky."

She drops his hand as Dr. Zahir steps up. Her grip is firm, and her eyes are sharp and intelligent but not unsettling like the last psychologist. 

"So," Dr. Jones says. "Let's get down to business, shall we? Captain Rogers, would you mind stepping out? My patient does have a right to privacy."

Bucky tenses, eyes locking with Steve. "No," he chokes out.

Dr. Jones looks between them, slightly confused. "I mean, it's up to you," she tells Bucky. "If you feel more comfortable with him here..."

Steve clears his throat. "It's just, uh, last time a psychologist was left alone with him it didn't really...go well. That's kind of why you're here."

Both doctors glance at Bucky, and he feels their faint twinge of fear. They think he hurt the psychologist. 

"He was Hydra," Bucky grits out. 

Their expressions twist into ones of concern. "Oh," Dr. Zahir says. "What happened?"

Steve glances at Bucky. Bucky takes a breath. "He...said my trigger words. Made me try to escape. They, uh, they stopped me, but my head still...isn't right."

Dr. Jones nods, looking pensive. "And you want us to help?"

He nods. 

"Okay, I'm game. Dr. Zahir?"

She nods. "Of course. Why don't you start from the beginning?"

***

"Okay," Dr. Jones says, scrolling through the scans he'd had when he first got here, "I'm going to want another scan. The persistent headache definitely concerns me. I also would really love to see exactly what the trigger words do to your brain, but I don't want to put you through that again. Let's settle for the scan and perhaps some brain wave monitoring in case they're still active. Sound good?"

He nods. He vaguely remembers doing the scan before, the way he'd panicked and dissociated, but he doesn't really have much choice.

"The scanner is a few floors up," Steve adds.

Dr. Zahir turns to Bucky. "Are you good to walk?"

He nods. "Yeah. I'm fine." Steve moves over and undoes the IV, offering him a hand. Bucky waves him away, swinging his legs over and standing up. He feels okay, his blood levels restored and wrist fully healed. He starts to pry the bandage of with his metal hand awkwardly before Steve steps in, Bucky sighing and extending his wrist. Steve carefully unwraps the layers, revealing only a faint white line running the length of his wrist, the remains of stitches pushed out around it. 

Dr. Zahir steps up. "That was only last night?"

He nods, dropping his arm. 

"Your healing factor is remarkable. That's very good news for your brain."

He grimaces. "I hope so."

They make their way up to the scanner, slight anxiety settling in Bucky's stomach. The large machine looms ominously as they cross the room, the sliding table no more friendly than last time. Besides, last time he'd basically been a robot, and it didn't bother him so much. Now he's viscerally aware of exactly how terrifying the scanner is. 

"You okay?" Steve asks softly. "You don't have to do this."

He sighs. "Yes I do. It'll be fine. Just...can you stay close?"

"Of course."

He takes a deep breath and steps up to the table, sitting on the thin mattress. Another breath and he lies down, head facing the scanner. Steve stands beside him, the doctors by the controls. 

"Initiating scan," Jarvis says, voice echoing from seemingly nowhere. Bucky gives a thumbs up. The table moves with a jerk, inching towards the scanner until it blots out his vision. Then there's a clunk and a whir, and Bucky's heart jolts. He closes his eyes, trying to breathe, pushing away the memories of the chair. The scanner whirs over him, around him, and he can feel the clamps tightening around his face, electricity sparking through his brain, someone speaking as they move around him-

_Longing, rusted, seventeen, daybreak-_

He taps the side of the mattress, panic spiking. Stop, he needs to stop, make it stop-

_-furnace, nine, benign, homecoming, one, freight car-_

Everything stops. 

The soldier blinks, staring up at a smooth surface as a whirring sound fades. There's a jerk and the table he's lying on moves, a ceiling coming into his vision. He senses people in the room near him.

"Bucky? Are you okay?"

 _Bucky._ The soldier sits up, locating the source of the voice. A man, blonde hair and blue eyes- _Steve-_

 _"Ready to comply,"_ the soldier says. 

"Oh no," the man replies. The man,  _Steve,_ why does he know him, where-where is he, there's something he's forgetting, something he's supposed to know-

"Bucky," the man repeats cautiously. "Buck, do you know me?"

He squints. "Steve?"

Steve exhales in relief. "Yeah. Yeah, it's me. You know where you are?"

"Nyet."  _No._

"Okay, and you're speaking Russian. So, I'm guessing the trigger is active again."

The soldier frowns, confused.  _Trigger?_ There's something he's supposed to know about that, something important. He is...he got triggered, there was a psychologist, he's getting-he's getting a scan, why is he getting a scan? He is..in the Tower, with Steve, he is Bucky, no he is the soldier, no-that's not right,  _he's Bucky-_

He presses a hand to his temple, gritting his teeth against the pain that spikes through it.  _Goddamnit._

"Bucky?"

He shudders, metal arm whirring and recalibrating as his mind splits apart, fracturing and resettling as knowledge slots into place, Bucky struggling against the soldier. He is Russian, no-he is American, he is the Winter Soldier, he is  _Bucky,_ he is-he remembers, the  _trigger,_ he's not himself, he has to-has to  _try, come on Barnes, fight-_

"Fuck," he gasps out, panting as he tries to regain control, hunching over and pinching the bridge of his nose as he squeezes his eyes shut. He digs his metal fingers into his thigh to ground himself. He is Bucky. He is in the Tower. He got triggered by the scanner and dissociated.  _Get it together, Barnes._ He breathes. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. He relaxes, the trigger releasing its grip on his mind and retreating. He drops his hand and looks up, taking in Steve and the doctors watching him anxiously.

"It's me," he rasps.

"Say something to prove it," Steve demands. "I need to know it's you."

Bucky thinks, saying the first two random facts that cross his mind.  "Your mom's name was Sarah. You used to wear newspapers in your shoes."

Steve relaxes. "Hey. How're you feeling?"

Bucky rubs his temple. "Ugh."

"That good, huh?"

He laughs raggedly. "Yeah."

"So the scanner triggered you?" Dr. Zahir questions.

He nods. "The sound. Like the chair. And they always did the trigger words after the chair. I...heard them, in my head, and then everything went away."

"Well, we did manage to get a full scan," Dr. Jones comments, "so we'll see what it looks like. It looked like coming out of the trigger made your head hurt, is that right?"

"Yeah. It still hurts now."

"I'd like to get some electrodes on your head, measure your brain waves. Would that be too triggering?"

"I don't think so."

"Alright, why don't we head back down to the med bay. It should have everything we need."

Bucky nods tiredly, getting up. He follows them back into the elevator and down to the med bay, sitting on the edge of the hospital bed. The doctors rummage around the storage room for equipment as Steve sits down next to him, pressing their shoulders together. Bucky finds his hand and intertwines their fingers, not caring if the doctors see. At this point, it doesn't seem to matter, and he'll be damned if he's losing a minute of precious time with Steve. 

"I'm sorry," Steve murmurs. "That must have been hard."

Bucky shrugs. "At least I wasn't really triggered in the mind control sense. It was only for a moment. I just dissociated a little."

"Still, I know how much you didn't want that to happen again. Not feeling in control."

He doesn't respond. The doctors return, carrying wires and equipment and an electrode cap. Steve stands up, giving them room as they wheel a cart with various plugs next to the bed.

"Okay," Dr. Jones says, "I'm just going to put this on you and monitor your brain waves. I want to at least get one sleep cycle in, so you're going to have to stay in this bed until tomorrow. I'll take a look at the scans in the meantime. Sound good?"

He nods.

"Alright, I'm going to need to touch your head to put this on." She lifts the cap and he gives another nod. She carefully slides it over his head as he stays stock still, focusing on breathing. It settles over his head, pressing to his scalp, and she tucks his hair behind his hears, securing the cap under his chin and hefting the wires that trail from it. "Go ahead and get comfortable," she instructs. 

Bucky carefully shifts back in the bed until he's sitting as before, Dr. Jones maneuvering the wires with him. Once he's settled she starts to plug them into the machine on the cart, more wires trailing away to a computer across the room. 

"All done. I want to look at the scans, just inform Jarvis if you need to get up and I'll come down and unplug you. Sound good?"

He nods. "Thank you."

She smiles. "Get some rest."

Dr. Zahir steps up. "Bucky, if you wouldn't mind, I'd like to start talking to you. My purpose here is two-fold. I'm here to do a psychological evaluation, but I also would like to talk to you and try to work through some of your trauma. A suicide attempt is a big deal, especially if you weren't in your right mind. I'd like to help you regain control on a psychological level. Is that something you'd be interested in?"

He hesitates and then nods. "Yeah."

"Okay. Consider me officially your therapist. Now, I have to give a psychological assessment to the court, but it's not specific, only whether I think you're competent and stable. Anything you say to me stays between us, unless you're going to hurt yourself or others."

"Confidentiality." He knows this from Sam.

"Exactly. Now, I understand that you're nervous around psychologists, but I really would like to talk to you alone. Jarvis is watching, would you be comfortable if your friends were close by and able to reach you if Jarvis alerted them?"

He nods slowly. "I think so." She seems okay, but then it's never obvious. He can't be too careful. He looks at Steve. "It's okay. You can go."

Steve looks hesitant but finally he nods, reaching out to squeeze Bucky's hand before leaving. Dr. Zahir takes the seat on his right, Bucky's heart rate climbing slightly at being alone with her.

"So, Bucky, why don't you tell me a little about yourself?"

He blinks. "About...myself?"

"I just want to get to know you a little." She tilts her head. "And, I won't lie, I do want to know how much you remember. I'm coming into this fairly blind. I don't know much about what Hydra did to you, only that it involved induced amnesia, brainwashing, and mind control. Torture, too." Her gaze flicks down to the scars that wrap around his wrist. "It's your choice how much you want to tell me. I'm just here to help."

Bucky searches her eyes, seeing nothing but honesty. He nods. "Okay. Can I-can I start from the beginning?"

"You can start anywhere you like. I'm just going to listen."

He takes a breath and begins. 

 


	14. Chapter 14

_-The doctor's hand moves around in his abdomen, more holding the incision open. Their voices blur together in Bucky's ears as he bites down on the leather strap, tears rolling down his temples and dampening his sweat-soaked hair. The IV drips steadily into his arm. The doctor's hand moves, hitting something that makes white-hot pain explode in Bucky's abdomen, and he screams around the strap before he falls into darkness-_

_-Darkness presses in, the blindfold around his eyes dampened with tears and sweat. He presses his forehead to the wall, back burning with fiery pain and legs shaking under him, the bullet wound in his thigh still bleeding sluggishly. His arms ache, wrists cuffed on either side of his head and silver cutting into the right-_

_-His wrist are cuffed on either side of his head, silver cutting into the right and right side throbbing with agony from the burns. A weight presses against his back and a hand snakes around his waist, undoing his pants. He struggles and Rumlow digs a hand into his side, making him scream._

_"Stay still."_

_Panic washes over him and something breaks inside-_

_-A hand cracks against his face-_

_-He fires and sees the target crumple through his scope-_

_-"Mission report-"_

_-"Good morning, soldier-"_

_-He wraps a metal hand around the target's throat, watching as he struggles before going limp-_

_-"Howard!-"_

_-Water spills over his face and into his mouth and nose, making him choke and thrash, the cloth pulled tight over his face-_

_-He shoots and Steve falls, red blossoming in his midsection-_

_-His fist cracks against Steve's cheekbone over and over-_

_-"Failure is not an option-"_

_-"Longing-"_

_-Rumlow pins him down, breath hot on his neck._

_"Not a word," he growls-"_

_-"Rusted-"_

_-He screams-_

_-"Seventeen-"_

_-"You're! My! Mission!-"_

_-"Daybreak-"_

_-"No-"_

_-"Furnace-"_

_-"Please, make it stop, make it stop-"_

_-"Nine-"_

_-The target falls-_

_-"Benign-"_

_-"Bucky! No!-"_

_-"Homecoming-"_

_-Pierce's hand cracks against his face-_

_-"One-"_

_-The metal clamps around his face-_

_-"Freight car-"_

_-Electricity sparks through his mind and he screams-_

He jerks awake, breathing heavily. There's something on his head, covering it, and he reaches up to rip it off before remembering the electrodes. He slumps against the bed, taking deep breaths as his heart rate settles.  _Fuck._ At least the trigger words seem to have settled, waiting quietly in the back of his mind but not active. Just a normal nightmare, then. Probably because he talked to the psychologist last night, and it brought up all the memories to the surface. He hadn't told her everything, or really much at all, giving the barest outline of his life story and what Hydra did to him to bring her up to speed. He still doesn't know if he can trust her, after all. He likes her, though. She's got a certain no-nonsense attitude and had apparently been in the Army before she became a psychologist. She specializes in trauma, especially military-related, and at least probably understands him better than a normal therapist given her service, though Bucky doesn't know what the Army is like these days. A lot has changed since the second World War. But she reminds him of Sam; compassionate, yet taking no shit. He's pretty sure she's going easy on him now, and she's going to break him open and pry every last thought and emotion out of him once they get started. At least he has confidentiality. It's bad enough Steve knows most of what he went through from the tapes and the techs. He doesn't ever want him knowing the things that haunt him in his dreams, the people he sees fall through his scope or under his metal hand, the exact pitch of Rumlow's voice and the feeling of his hands on him, the way they'd cut him open and studied him and the way he'd broken and given in even before Zola and Fenhoff. Steve can't ever know. 

Bucky shifts in the bed, reaching over to the small nightstand to grab the book Steve had left there. He finds his place, fingers parting the pages. He catches sight of the silvery scar on his wrist and traces it, thinking back to the night before. He'd been under the influence of the trigger words, yes, but it was still him. If they don't manage to get the trigger words out, to ensure that it can never happen, then Bucky will try again. He knows this. He can't live with the trigger words hanging over him, always ready to take him back. He can't live knowing he may end up hurting his friends, or becoming the soldier again and doing Hydra's work. It's a selfish decision as well as a selfless one. He just wants to rest. He's tired of hurting, tired of struggling against his own mind, tired of trying to remember and recover and reclaim his life after years of being nothing but a machine. Years, he thinks. Not even counting the war, which was horrible and traumatic on its own. He's seen too much shit. His body is a map of scars, his brain worse. He's barely alive, barely functioning. He's a person, but not a very good one. What kind of place does he have in the world? He's a vampire, an evil creature, who was also a brainwashed assassin for Hydra. There's no precedent for that. He has no purpose in this world. If people didn't hate him, they would at least be scared of him. He's not part of their world. He's not one of them. He's not even human. 

He pulls himself out of his spiral of thoughts, returning to his book. One step at a time. For now, he will let his friends and the doctors try to fix him. After that...he can't think about it now. He'll cross that bridge when he comes to it.

***

Steve walks in and sits down in the chair, passing Bucky a steaming mug of coffee. Bucky takes it gratefully, wrapping his hands around it and inhaling.

"Morning."

"Morning," Steve replies. "Sleep well?"

Bucky shrugs. "Fine." He takes a sip of the bitter drink, feeling it warm him from the inside out. "You?"

Steve shrugs. "Fine." Bucky thinks they're both liars. "Sam's out for a run."

Bucky sighs. "I miss the training floor."

"Well, whenever you're done here we can go. I need to punch something too."

Bucky chuckles. "It's very cathartic."

The door opens and Dr. Jones steps through, looking put-together and awake. Bucky feels extremely unwashed and unpresentable in comparison, and feels a spark of shame. The old Bucky would never let himself look like this, especially in front of a woman.

"Good morning," she says.

"Morning," Steve and Bucky reply in unison.

Dr. Jones stops by the bed, gesturing to the electrode cap. "I can take this off now."

Bucky nods, still holding his coffee, and Dr. Jones reaches over and undoes it, sliding it off as Bucky breathes a sigh of relief. He's not a fan of things on his head.

"So, do you want the good news or the bad news first?" she asks.

Bucky grimaces. "Bad news." He'd rather get it over with.

"The trigger words are definitely affecting your brain. From what I can tell, they seem to induce a minor seizure and cause a state of temporary dissociation like that of hypnosis. On the scan, when you became triggered, there was a burst of electrical activity like that of a seizure and then parts of your brain became less activated while others become more activated. Memory and emotional centers seem to be especially affected. You also have some brain damage remaining, though it's significantly less than on the previous scan. I'm hypothesizing that the concussion you sustained in addition to the trigger words and previous brain damage made your headaches worse. You're basically having a seizure every time you get triggered, and that plus concussion and the serious damage to your brain is causing a lot of inflammation and pain. You have a traumatic brain injury, and though your healing factor is great it may never go away fully."

Bucky nods, digesting this. "So you can't fix it?"

Dr. Jones shakes her head. "Not necessarily. This is the good news. The brain damage, no, but the trigger words, maybe. I conferenced with Dr. Zahir, since she understands more of the psychology behind the trigger words. Basically, you were subject to an advanced form of hypnotism. In addition, they used the memory wiping as part of the technique. The electrical simulation was not unlike that of a seizure, and basically allowed your brain to be programmed, in a sense. A blank slate, separated from your memories. They used the trigger words embedded in your brain to only recall the memories they wanted, and keep you in a dissociated state. However, when they used the trigger words without the mind wiping, your brain wasn't quite primed for them. The words psychosomatically triggered a small seizure, since they were associated with the mind wiping, but it wasn't the real thing. You slipped into the hypnotic state, but you were just under the surface. All your memories were still there, intact, only you weren't aware of them. Induced psychosis, if you will. Loss of contact with reality."

She pauses. "Now, we have come up with a possible solution, but you may not like it. Basically, we need to rewrite the associations in your brain. If the trigger words continue to be used, but without the mind wiping, and your brain is allowed to heal each time, the trigger words will lose their effect. They'll just become words."

Bucky stares, the pieces coming together. "You want to trigger me again."

Dr. Jones winces. "Yeah, basically. And not just once, over and over until it stops working. Of course, it's your choice. I don't expect you to say yes. I know this is the last thing you want. But this is the solution, if you want to be 100% certain they can't control you with them again. Someone you trust says the trigger words in a safe environment, and you just stay there until they wear off. You'll be triggered, but nothing bad will happen. That's part of rewriting the associations as well. We want the words to be associated with nonviolence and safety instead of fighting."

Bucky considers. He hates it, but it's the only option. He doesn't have a choice. He can't let them control him again. He wants to be free.

He takes a breath. "I'll do it."

"Buck, are you sure?" Steve questions softly.

Bucky nods. "Yes. I have to."

Dr. Jones looks at him with sympathy in her eyes. "You're very brave. I promise, I'll do everything in my power to make this as painless as possible. You're safe here."

***

He drives his fist into the punching bag with a grunt, pouring all his anger into it. He pauses to wipe sweat off his forehead and hears the soft pad of footsteps approaching, a familiar gait. 

"Natalia," he says without turning. 

"James." She walks around to stand next to the punching bag, leaning on it as Bucky raises an eyebrow. "It's been a while since we've trained."

Bucky cocks his head, and her smirk grows. He grins, jagged and feral. "Yes it has."

Natalia steps back, crooking her fingers in a beckoning gesture. He follows, anticipation coiling in his gut. Natalia leads him all the way to the open floor before dropping into a fighting stance. Bucky lets his body settle into position, mind quieting. He can sense Steve watching.

Bucky narrows his eyes at Natalia. "Begin."

Natalia springs into motion and Bucky lets himself do the same, sinking into the familiar motions as everything else disappears. It's like a dance, their bodies moving smoothly around each other in perfect harmony, silence punctuated by sharp breaths and the thud of skin on skin as they match blows. Bucky feels the anger and tension drain away as he loses himself in the fight, his body feeling more his than it has in weeks. He knows every inch of his body, knows exactly where he is in space and exactly how to move, how hard he can push himself and the exact capacity he has for fighting. Nothing exists except for the two of them, spinning and twisting so fast they blur, knowing each other intimately, every strike foreseen and blocked and no pain, no injury. They aren't fighting to hurt. This is a dance, a mutual expression of themselves.

It drags on. Bucky can feel himself tiring, sweat pouring down his back and muscles starting to burn. The tone changes. Natalia lands a hit across his face and he growls, the two of them circling each other as they pant for breath.

"Holding back, James?" she taunts. "I'm not ten anymore."

He narrows his eyes and attacks again, strikes vicious. No longer a dance but a fight. He needs this, needs to expel the frustration that sings through his body. He puts Natalia in a headlock with the metal arm. She kicks out his knee and flips him to the floor. He kicks out, catching her in the stomach and throwing her across the room. She lands on her feet, catlike, a grin stretching across her face. She saunters towards him as he gets up, switching to Russian.

_"Come on. Fight me."_

He strikes out, quick blows that she deflects. She spins and kicks him across the face. He elbows her in the ribs. He knows he's still holding back. He doesn't want to kill her, after all. She's holding back as well. No killing blows. 

 _"Are you going to let some words beat you?"_ Natalia pants.  _"Going to lie down and stop fighting just because you got hurt? I thought you were stronger than that."_

Rage sparks and he snarls, lashing out at her. She blocks his strikes with ease.

_"What's the matter? Getting upset? I thought you were the Winter Soldier. You don't get upset."_

_"What the hell are you doing?"_ he growls. He sidesteps a sweep of her legs.

 _"Are you angry?"_ Natalia presses. She drives her knee into his ribs and something cracks.

 _"What do you think?"_ he gasps.

_"I think you're giving up. I think you're weak. What did they do to you? Just a few words. That's all it takes to bring down the legendary Winter Soldier."_

_"Shut up!"_ He catches her across the face with his metal hand and immediately falters, feeling guilty. She takes the chance to spin and kick him in the face.

 _"What did they do to you?"_ she repeats.  _"Why are you so upset? Can't handle a few words? A little pain? It is only pain, Yasha."_

 _"No!"_ He whirls, putting her on the defensive, striking hard and fast, panting out words between blows.  _"They erased me.......they tortured me....they took...control of my mind, you have-you have no idea...what...I've....been...through!"_

She ducks under his fist.  _"How does that make you feel, Yasha?"_

_"How do you think?"_

_"Say it."_ She punches him square in the face.  _"Say it."_

Something in him snaps. He lunges forward, wrapping his metal hand around her throat and pinning her to the floor.  _"I hate it!"_ he screams.  _"I hate them! I hate myself! They took everything from me! They broke me, they took control of my mind, and now I have to do it again, I have to go through that again and I can't-I can't-"_ He's shaking with rage, breaths coming in pants and metal hand wrapped loosely around Natalia's throat as she stares up at him calmly.

"There you are," she says softly. 

Bucky crumbles. His hand slides from her throat as he falls to the side and sits down hard, legs still tangled with Natalia's. She sits up, reaching forward to wrap her arms around him as he slumps sideways into her. He presses his face into her shoulder and cries as she holds him, a hand clutching his head.

"It's alright," she murmurs. "I've got you."

***

"Sergeant Barnes," Jarvis speaks quietly.

Bucky lifts his head from Natalia's shoulder, wiping his eyes and exhaling raggedly. "Yes, Jarvis?" he croaks.

"Mr. Hawthorne will be here soon."

Bucky sniffs and nods. "Thanks, Jarvis." He gets to his feet, offering a hand to Natalia. She takes it, both of them wincing as they feel their injuries. Bucky's pretty sure he has a cracked rib and a torn knee, and his face feels puffy and bruised. Natalia's similarly holding her ribs, a bruise blossoming on her cheekbone.

"Shit," Bucky groans. "We beat the shit out of each other."

Natalia chuckles. "Sometimes a good ass-kicking is what we need." She reaches out and squeezes his metal hand. "I didn't mean anything I said. I was just trying to provoke you. You needed to let that out."

Bucky nods. "I know. Thank you." He looks around. They're alone on the training floor, Steve having left after Bucky's breakdown, presumably to give them privacy. Bucky's pretty sure his lawyer is going to have an even worse impression of him now. Seriously, he can't see the guy without being injured. And Dr. Zahir will be back in the afternoon. She won't be happy either.

Bucky groans again. "I gotta take a shower."

"Please do. You stink."

Bucky halfheartedly swats at her with his metal hand. She ducks easily, laughing. They trudge towards the elevator, exhausted and wrung-out, every muscle in Bucky's body aching and trembling with exhaustion. It feels good, though. His body feels like his own, and the unsettled anxiety that's been floating around has finally drained away. He feels human. 

Bucky steps out onto his own floor, waving Natalia away. He heads straight for the shower, stripping quickly before stepping under the warm spray. He resists the urge to groan, aching muscles relaxing. He rolls his metal shoulder, feeling the soreness all the way down his spine from the heavy use and knowing he'll pay for this later but not caring. He needed that.

He washes quickly, assessing his injuries. A cracked rib, a sore knee, various bruises. He'll live. He steps out, wrapping the towel around his waist and wiping away the condensation from the mirror before shaving quickly. There's a few bruises on his face, eye blackening and lip split, but nothing serious. He finger combs his hair and pads down the hallway to his bedroom, grabbing a change of clothes. 

"Mr. Hawthorne is waiting for you in conference room A," Jarvis interrupts.

Bucky nods, shoving shoes on and jogging to the elevator. It moves down until he reaches one of the lower floors, with glass conference rooms lining the hallway. He ducks into the first one, seeing Hawthorne already seated at the long table. He looks up at Bucky's approach.

"Sergeant Barnes." He blinks. "Did something else happen?"

Bucky moves forward to shake his hand, wincing. "Ah. No, I was sparring."

"Oh." Hawthorne looks slightly troubled. "Well, take a seat. We've got a lot of stuff to go over, and only a few weeks until the trial."

Bucky slides into the seat across from him. It feels strange, talking to him without being restrained. He knows Jarvis is watching, and the floor is secured, the Avengers within easy distance, but it still feels strange. He could kill Hawthorne before anyone could get to him. He supposes Hawthorne signed up for this, though, being the defense lawyer for an assassin. Not that he's going to kill him. Just that he could.

"First, I want to ask how you're doing," Hawthorne says, watching him with worried eyes. "Last time we met, there was a lot going on."

Bucky sighs. "Yeah. And a lot's happened since. The triggers are apparently still messing with my mind. But there's a way...they're going to fix it."

Hawthorne leans forward, looking interested. "Really?"

He nods. "Yeah. It's....not fun, but they can do it." He shifts. "I guess I should start from the beginning."

Hawthorne gestures with a hand. "Please. Go ahead."

***

"Okay, so I've gone over a lot of the tapes, and I think I've narrowed it down to some crucial moments that illustrate that you weren't in your right mind."

Bucky looks down. "You have to-you have to show everyone?"

Hawthorne sighs. "If you want to be exonerated, I'm going to have to show the court some of the worst things they did to you. It's your choice, but without the evidence there's little hope any jury will believe what happened to you."

Bucky nods miserably. He knows, but still the thought of dozens of people watching what had happened to him, what they made him do....

"Which moments?"

Hawthorne hesitates. "You don't have to watch them, you know. You don't have to be in the courtroom for that."

"I know. "

"Okay. Just...alright. I'll start with the first one. I want to make a chronological documentation of what happened, the major points that contributed to you carrying out the crimes, so I'm starting with the Russian tapes. We have evidence of Dr. Fenhoff hypnotizing you, mind-controlling you. We'll start with that and the first time they used the mind-wiping. The sound for the trigger words is already missing, so you don't have to worry about that. It's still clear that they exist. And if you go through with the trigger reduction process and record it, that could be very helpful as well."

"Show I'm not in control."

"Exactly."

Bucky sighs. "Okay. What next?"

***

Bucky leaves the conference room feeling drained and with a headache pulsing between his eyes. They'd gone through every moment Hawthorne wants to show, every horrible, gut-wrenching moment, some of which is vivid in memory and some of which is not. He doesn't have to watch the tapes, but bringing them up is enough to make the events replay in his mind's eye. He's tired, mentally and physically, injuries aching and mind numb and overwhelmed. He reaches the apartment and collapses on the couch, wrapping the blanket around himself. Steve pads over, crouching down next to his burritoed form and smiling softly as he meets his eyes.

"Hey. How are you feeling?"

Bucky feels his eyes droop. "Tired," he mumbles. 

"You still look pretty banged up. Want to feed?"

"Later. Sleep." His eyes drift closed. He hears Steve chuckle faintly.

"Okay. Get some rest." His footsteps retreat and Bucky sighs deeply, sinking into sleep.

***

"-ucky. Bucky."

Bucky groans, pulling the blanket tighter around himself.

"Go away," he mumbles.

"Bucky, get up."

"Noo," he slurs. "Sleep."

"Dr. Zahir is here."

 _Shit._ Bucky cracks open his eyes, sighing. He sits up and throws the blanket off, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and yawning. Steve blurs in his vision.

"Where?" Bucky croaks.

"Here. Sam and I will be only a floor away, and Jarvis will be monitoring. You can stay right here. She's waiting below."

Bucky nods. "Okay. Jarvis, send her up."

"Dr. Zahir will be here shortly," Jarvis informs them. Bucky shifts on the couch, folding the blanket to the side haphazardly and trying his best to look presentable. He runs a hand through his hair, knowing it's probably messy but unable to do anything about it in the short time.

The elevator opens. Steve shoots Bucky a last glance before meeting Dr. Zahir as she steps out, shaking her hand before taking her place in the elevator. Dr. Zahir crosses the room, sinking into the armchair and giving a critical glance to Bucky's face.

"Another trigger?"

Bucky shakes his head. "No. I was sparring."

"Hmm. It looks like it got quite rough. Is that normal?"

"No, I-" He looks down. "Natal-Natasha was trying to....she knew I needed it."

"You needed to be beat up?"

"No. To...get angry. Let my feelings out, I guess."

She nods. "Well, my first thought wouldn't be to let myself get punched, but it is good to let your feelings out. Whatever works for you." She leans forward, steepling her fingers. "So, you've decided to go ahead with the trigger reduction?"

He nods. "Yeah."

"And how are you feeling about that?"

He shrugs. "I have to do it."

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to," she points out.

He clenches his jaw. "I know. But I-I have to do this. There's no other way."

She studies him. "If this wasn't an option, what would you do?"

He shifts. "I don't know."

"I don't want to press you, but I think you do know. It's okay, you can tell me anything. Confidentiality, remember?"

He looks away. "Unless I'm going to hurt myself or others."

"Is that what you would do? Hurt yourself? Hypothetically. It's off the table because we have the trigger reduction."

He hesitates, and then nods. What the hell. "Yeah. Yeah, I'd make sure they couldn't control me ever again."

He waits for her to freak out, for her face to go pained and worried like Steve's does. She just nods. "Okay."

He blinks. "O-okay?"

"You're not going to hurt yourself now, are you? Since we have a way to deal with the triggers?"

"No."

"Then that's all that matters right now. Listen, I want to keep you safe, and we do need to talk about your suicidal ideation, but unless you are actively planning to kill yourself I'm not going to do anything. This is about helping you."

He blinks again. "Oh." He swallows. "Thank you."

"Of course. It's what I'm here for. Speaking of that, what do you want me to help you with? If you just want support while you're going through trigger reduction, I can do that. Or if you want to really delve into some of your trauma and treat your PTSD, I can do that too. It's up to you."

He shifts. "I guess...both. I do...there's things I want to fix. PTSD. But I don't know if I can."

Dr. Zahir smiles. "Well, you never know until you try. I'd be happy to help. I specialize in something called Cognitive Processing Therapy. Do you know what that is?"

He shakes his head.

"Okay. So, because you're such a special case, I'm going to modify it a little bit. Normally, there's about twelve strictly structured sessions, but that's definitely not going to cut it for you and I want to support you more generally as well while you're going through trigger reduction and the trial. I'm going to mix in some regular talk therapy with CPT and stretch it so we can talk about more of your trauma, if that's okay with you?"

He nods.

"Great. Now, on to what CPT is all about. Let's start by talking about PTSD."

*** 

Dr. Zahir places a form on the coffee table along with a pen. "This is a consent form. I need to know that you agree to this therapy and will participate willingly. If so, you can sign it, but it's up to you." 

Bucky hesitates before picking up the pen and scrawling his name along the line in flowing cursive.  _James Buchanan Barnes._

Dr. Zahir collects it and nods. "Great. For the next session, I want you to start working on how you think about and explain your trauma, which we're considering generally to be your time with Hydra. I also want you to pay attention to how the trauma impacted on your views of yourself, other people, and the world. I want you to write at least one page on 1) why you think this happened to you, and 2) how has it changed or strengthened your views about yourself, other people and the world in general. Also, consider the effects it has had on your beliefs about yourself, other people, and the world specifically in these areas: safety, trust, power/control, esteem, and intimacy." She pulls out a sheet with instructions on it. "You're writing about  _why_ the trauma occurred, not the specifics of what happened. Bring the impact statement with you to our next CPT session. Pick a time and place to write where you have as much privacy as possible, so you can feel any feelings that arise as you complete the assignment. Do you have any questions?"

He shakes his head.

"Okay. Then I will see you tomorrow for the first trigger reduction session. I understand you want Captain Rogers to be the one to trigger you?"

"Yeah. And I don't-I don't want anyone else to hear them. Sorry."

She waves a hand. "No, of course. We're talking about words that can be used to control your mind. I'm not offended that right now you only trust Captain Rogers with them. But the whole thing will be recorded, sans sound for the trigger words, and I'll be there the whole time and after to help with anything you might be feeling when you come out of it. You'll be in a safe place, and nothing will happen to you. I guarantee that."

He nods. "Thank you."

***

_Becca,_

_I'm sorry._

Bucky sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face in frustration. He tosses the pen onto the desk with a clatter. He wants-he needs to write to Becca. She must know he's alive, and he has to reach out to her somehow. He may not be able to face her, but he's always been able to write her. If only he can figure out what to say. What do you say to your ninety-four-year-old little sister after she thought you died in the war but you only became a vampire assassin for Hydra for seventy years?

He sighs and picks up the pen again, hovering over the paper in the dim light of his bedroom.

_Becca,_

_I'm sorry. I know I broke my promise. I'm sure you know I'm alive by now, and where I was. What Hydra did to me. I'm sorry, Becs. I'm here now, but it's too late for both of us. I'm not him. I'm not the Bucky you knew. He died in 1945. And I know you must have grieved, I know it must have broken Ma's heart, but it was better that way. I should've died back then. Please, Becs, let me rest in peace. Remember me as I was. Forget who I am now, forget I'm alive, forget I'm here. I'm not alive, not really. I'm nothing but a memory. But you, you had a full life. You did everything I knew you could. Knowing that, for me, is enough. It's everything I ever wanted. You deserve to live the rest of your life unburdened by my sins. You deserve to live without having to know what they did to me, what they turned me into. You deserve Bucky. Hold onto his memory. I'm sure it's better than mine._

_I feel like I have a million things to say and yet I can't think of a single one. When I fell, the last thought I had was that I broke my promise. That I was sorry. I wanted to say so many things, but I never got to. I guess I thought I'd have more time. It's ironic. I got seventy more years, in the end, but no time at all. God, Becs, you're older than me now. I don't even know how old I am now, exactly. The time I was awake was scattered, and the years don't add up perfectly. I think I'm probably thirty now, at least. Still young. Still young, and yet I feel a million years old. You, my baby sister, are ninety-four now. Sometimes I wish they hadn't found me yet, that I was still sleeping in Hydra, if only so you could die not having to know this. If only so you could die still remembering Bucky, remembering me as I was._

_I miss you, Becs. God I miss you. But this time, I won't make any promises. I can't come home. I know that, now. I was never going to come home. As soon as I held that draft letter, my fate was sealed. No, as soon as Steve asked me to follow him. That was it. I followed him straight into hell, and spent seventy years there. Maybe I'm still there. So I can't come home. It's the only promise to you I've ever broken, and I'm sorry._

_I closed my eyes before I hit the ground, and I prayed. I'm not sure I believe in God now, but I've always believed in you. If I could stretch out that time, if I could make myself fall forever, this is what I would say. This is what Bucky would say:_

_I love you. I'm sorry. Live, for me. Make something of yourself. Change the world. Remember me._

_Remember me. Not as I am, but as I was. Let me rest in peace. Please._

_Love,_

_Bucky_  

  


	15. Chapter 15

Bucky blows out a breath, leg jiggling slightly as he sits on the couch that's been set up in what he's calling  _the trigger room._ It's a fairly small room, surrounded by soundproof glass so that the doctors, his lawyer, and his friends can watch him while Steve says the trigger words without hearing them. There's speakers set into it, which will turn on after he's triggered and allow them to hear him. There's a camera in the corner recording, though the sound for the trigger words will be cut out. Once Steve triggers him, Dr. Zahir will conduct a short assessment and then they will wait for him to go back to normal. A small electrode attached to his temple will wirelessly transmit his brain waves to a computer that Dr. Jones will be watching. He's been set up on a couch with the assumption that it will make him feel more comfortable than a chair, and help him revert back to normal. There's a couple chairs facing him for Dr. Zahir, and Steve and Sam will be with him the whole time and try to break the triggered state. Everything is prepared for. Still, Bucky feels cold sweat start on the back of his neck and rubs his clammy palms on his legs to try and dry them, swallowing convulsively as anxiety knots his stomach.

Dr. Zahir walks in for the pre-assessment, sitting down in the chair.

"Ready?" she asks kindly.

Bucky nods wordlessly.

"Okay, if you could state your name and date of birth."

"James Buchanan Barnes. March 10, 1917," he recites. 

She nods. "And your affiliation with Hydra?"

"Former. Not by choice."

"Okay. Do you want to hurt anyone?"

"Besides Hydra? No."

"Can you tell me who Steve Rogers is and his relation to you?"

Bucky smiles slightly. "Steve's just an idiot kid from Brooklyn who wanted to join the Army so bad he let scientists experiment on him. He's Captain America. To me? My friend, since I was six years old. The guy I followed back into a war just to try and keep him safe."

Dr. Zahir's eyes soften. "Alright. That's it. Good luck." She stands up and leaves the room, Steve replacing her. He holds a red book to mimic the Hydra one, but the words aren't written down. He has the words memorized. Bucky had written them down and Steve had promised to learn them, consulting Natalia for correct pronunciations, and Bucky had explained the way they had to be read, walking around him clockwise with specific words at specific points. After Steve had memorized the words, the written list was burned. Everything is set.

Steve stands in front of him, looking grim. "Ready?"

Bucky nods. "See you on the other side." He takes a deep breath, gripping the edge of the couch on either side of his legs.

Steve opens the book and takes a step to Bucky's right.

_"Longing."_

Bucky shudders, trying to relax. He's not trying to fight it. Steve takes another step, out of his line of sight.

_"Rusted."_

Bucky grits his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut as pain lances through his head, blankness creeping over everything.

_"Seventeen"_

His fingers dig into the edge of the couch as chilling rage sweeps over him and his head snaps forward, shoulders hunching and straining.

_"Daybreak."_

He clenches his teeth around a scream as his mind fractures. His breath comes in pants and his eyes fly open.

_"Furnace."_

 He can feel himself slipping away, the darkness clawing at his mind, suffocating him. His vision blurs.

_"Nine."_

His head twitches to the side, thoughts trickling away like grains of sand. His chin trembles. 

_"Benign."_

He is-he is Bucky, no, he is the soldier-

_"Homecoming."_

He body gives one last shudder, Bucky fading in and out of awareness as he's sucked back into his mind, everything going blank.

_"One."_

His breathing slows as the blankness takes over.

_"Freight car."_

His mind snaps and everything disappears. Knowledge settles into place and the soldier stills, breathing evenly. He is the Winter Soldier. He serves Russia and Hydra. The man who said the words is his handler. He does not question. He is not human.

The handler stops in front of him and closes the book. The soldier's eyes flick to him.

_"Good morning, soldier,"_ the man says in accented Russian.

_"Ready to comply,"_ the soldier responds.

The man looks slightly pained. He turns and gives a thumbs up to where the soldier can see people waiting outside the glass of the room he is in. He appears to be on a couch, something small stuck to his left temple and no chair in sight.  _Where is he?_ He does not question.

The door opens and a woman steps through, taking a seat in the chair opposite him. 

"Good morning," she says. "Do you know who I am?"

"No."

"My name is Dr. Zahir. I'm a psychologist. I'm going to ask you a few questions. Please respond honestly. It's okay if you don't know the answer. Do you understand?"

"Yes." He doesn't know what this is, what they want, but he will comply.

"Okay, can you tell me your name and date of birth?"

"I don't have a name," the soldier responds automatically. He knows this question.

Dr. Zahir presses her lips together. "Okay. What is your affiliation with Hydra?"

"I serve Hydra. Hydra created me."

"And is that your choice?"

The soldier stares at her, confused. His choice? 

"Do you want to serve Hydra?" Dr. Zahir presses.

The soldier blinks. "I don't have wants."

Dr. Zahir takes a breath. "Alright. Let me ask you this. Why do you serve Hydra?"

The soldier searches for the answer. "Hydra created me," he repeats. "I serve Hydra."

"Yes, but why?"

"I..." He is confused. It is what he does. What he was created for. "I don't...question," he tries, frustrated. "Hydra created me." He frowns, something else niggling at him, distorted words echoing in his mind. "Hydra is...good. It is...giving the world the freedom it deserves. I do my part."

Dr. Zahir studies him. "You do your part?"

"Yes."

"And you don't question it."

"No."

"Why not?"

His finger twitches. "I am not human. I don't question. I only follow orders."

"What happens if you do question? Or if you don't follow orders?"

His finger twitches again. "Correction."

Dr. Zahir takes a deep breath. "And what does correction mean?"

The soldier's hand spasms slightly. "Pain."

She nods, looking unsettled. "Okay. Next question. Do you want to hurt anyone?"

"I don't have wants."

She seems to think. "What would make you hurt someone?"

"Orders. Mission."

"Nothing else? You wouldn't hurt anyone unless you were ordered to?"

"No."

She nods. "Have you ever tried to hurt Hydra?"

His hand clenches around the edge of the couch. "I am not allowed to attack Hydra."

"But have you ever tried?"

He can't-he can't remember, but he thinks yes, there was correction, there was pain, the chair-

"Yes."

"Why?"

His hand clenches tighter, knuckles whitening. "I was malfunctioning."

"What does that mean?"

"I...." He searches, feeling unsettled for some reason. Something is wrong. His head hurts. Where is he? The words come to him, distant and foggy.  "There is...a flaw in my programming," he recites. "They fix me."

"And how do they fix you?"

"Corrections. The chair." The chair. Where is the chair? There is always the chair, with the words. Where is he? What is going on? Why can't he-why can't he remember?

Dr. Zahir looks even more unsettled. "Next question. Can you tell me who Steve Rogers is and his relation to you?"

_Steve._ He knows that name, somehow. "I...don't know," he replies, but that is not right. He knows this, he knows this name, thinks of blonde hair and blue eyes, a voice, a hand outstretched, falling-

Pain lances through his head and he twitches, something clawing at his mind. He shoves it down, blankness falling once again. Dr. Zahir is watching him closely. 

"Do you know who he is?" she asks, gesturing to his handler, who stands a few feet away.

"Handler," the soldier responds. He studies the man, blonde hair and blue eyes, a familiar face, a warmth in his chest, he knows him, he  _knows_ him-

_-"I knew him-"_

_-_ _"Wipe him, and start over-"_

_-electricity sparking through his mind-_

_-Pain, a heavy weight pressed against him-_

"Bucky?" the handler questions.

The soldier flinches, panic spiking. "Who the  _hell_ is Bucky?" he snarls. His breath hitches and there is someone screaming in his head, clawing and scratching to get out. The soldier shoves him down, shuddering as he retreats back into blankness, head twitching to the side before his breathing evens out and calmness descends. He is malfunctioning. He will be fixed.

Dr. Zahir and his handler are both watching him warily. Dr. Zahir leans forward slightly and points to his handler.

"This is Steve. It looks like you had a reaction to him. Do you remember him?"

_Wipe him, and start over-_

"No," the soldier chokes out desperately. "No, I don't, I don't, please, I don't know-"

Dr. Zahir raises her hands in a calming motion. "It's okay. No one's going to hurt you."

The soldier takes a shuddering breath and goes still again.

"I'm going to leave you with Steve," Dr. Zahir says carefully. "He's just going to talk to you and stay here for a while. I'm going to send someone else in, too. Nothing's going to happen to you. They just want to talk."

The soldier stares ahead blankly. He is not expected to respond. Dr. Zahir gets up and leaves the room as someone else comes in. His handler- _Steve-_ takes the vacated seat as another man pulls up a chair next to him. 

"Hey. You know who I am?" the man says.

"No."

He nods. "I'm Sam. We're actually friends, but you probably don't remember that. Before that, you tried to kill me, twice. You remember that?"

"No." But something niggles at his mind, flashes of wings and a face, a calming voice-

"You're in Avengers Tower," Steve says. "You escaped from Hydra and came to us. Right now you're under the influence of trigger words that they put in your mind. We're just going to sit with you until they wear off."

The soldier frowns, confused. Avengers Tower? Escape? Trigger words? His head pounds and whirls.

"I'm Steve," Steve continues. "You've known me your whole life. I'm your friend. Hydra wiped your memories and made you fight me, but you've regained them over the past few weeks. Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky. You were born on March 10, 1917. You were a Sergeant in the US Army before Hydra captured you and made you into the Winter Soldier."

The soldier's head pounds.  _What?_ His mind fractures and spins. It's-it's too much, he doesn't know, why are they saying these things, make it stop, make it stop-

"No," he chokes out. "No, I-" He presses a hand to his temple as pain spikes through it, gritting his teeth. There's something-something he's supposed to say, if he malfunctions- "Stop." His breath hitches. "Stop."

Steve and Sam fall silent. The soldier squeezes his eyes shut, hand falling from his head to clutch his thigh. Something claws at his mind. He shakes his head like a dog shedding water, trying to make it stop, fingers digging into the soft material covering his leg as he breathes in harsh pants, mind splitting apart. He is-he is the soldier, no, he is  _Bucky, fight, goddamnit-_

With a shudder he wrenches his mind back, eyes flying open as he looks between Steve and Sam, feeling unsettled and malfunctioning and-and-

"Bucky?" 

His metal arm whirs as he clenches the hand into a fist, pain sparking through his head. "Who..the hell..is Bucky?" he grinds out. He is...angry. He doesn't know why.

Steve shifts, watching him warily. "That's you."

The soldier squints at Steve, trying to make sense of the mass of fragmented thought and memory drifting through his mind. "You're...Steve."

"Yeah."

His mind latches onto a fragment of memory. "Mission."

Sam stiffens. "What mission?"

He searches. There is only one word, one word that makes the warmth in his chest glow brighter. "Protect."

They both relax and Steve smiles slightly. "Yeah. That's the mission you gave yourself, when we first found you."

He digs his fingers into his thigh again, gritting his teeth against the fresh pain in his head. It comes in waves, drowning him. There's someone else in his head, trying to break free. It whispers indistinctly, telling him to  _fight, goddamnit, come on Barnes, get it together-_

He shakes his head again, trying to get rid of the crawling feeling in the back of his mind, the presence he can feel trying to smother him. His metal arm whirs and recalibrates, responding to his distress.

"You're alright, Barnes. Just take it easy," Sam intones calmly. "We've got all day. No rush."

"Shut the  _fuck_ up," the soldier snaps. He blinks, startled, staring at Sam owlishly. Sam grins.

"Ah. There you are. My favorite asshole."

The soldier blinks again before a fresh wave of pain makes him hunch over, pressing his hand to his head and squeezing his eyes shut as he breathes raggedly. Sweat drips down the back of his neck and he realizes he's shaking slightly, his body feeling numb and strange. He feels like he's being torn apart, his mind splitting in two. He is the Winter Soldier. He serves Hydra and Russia-no, just Hydra, Americans, they gave him to the Americans, the Russians were better, no,  _the Russians were bad, Hydra is bad-_

_"We are not in Russia?"_ he grits out.

"He asked, 'we are not in Russia?'" a crisp voice says from nowhere.

The soldier lunges to his feet, grabbing Steve and shoving him in the corner of the room, taking a defensive stance in front of him as he searches around wildly for the voice. Sam is frozen in his seat, heart rate fast and loud in the soldier's ears, and he can sense Steve behind him.

"Buck."

The soldier flinches, not turning. The  _name._

"Buck, it's just Jarvis. He's a computer. He's an AI. I'm sorry, we should have warned you first."

"A computer," the soldier repeats flatly. That would explain how he hadn't sensed it.

"Yeah. And to answer your previous question, no, we're not in Russia. We're in America. New York City."

"Not Hydra?"

"No. Not Hydra."

The soldier relaxes from his defensive stance, walking back over to the couch and sitting down as before. Steve cautiously follows, sinking back down into his chair facing the soldier as Sam exhales in relief.

"Why'd you grab Steve?" Sam asks.

The soldier feels his eyebrow twitch upwards. "Protect." That is his mission.

Sam nods. "Right. And you know we're not Hydra. That a good thing, to you?"

The soldier blinks. "I...don't know." There's flashes in his head, pain and screams and his own voice- _Hydra was bad-_ and he clenches his fist, feeling anger spark. "Yes. Yes, I-" He cuts off, shaking his head again. "I don't-"

_I'm the good guy here. Don't make me have to hurt you to ensure you do your part-_

"No," he mutters. "No, no no no no no-"

His right hand shakes as he presses it to his head. He shudders again, feeling like someone else is trying to take control of his body, fighting in his mind. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple. What is happening to him? He is-he is malfunctioning, he needs to be fixed, he needs the chair-

_Metal clamps around his head, electricity whiting out his vision, his screams echoing off the walls-_

_NO._ No, he doesn't-he doesn't want the chair, he doesn't, it's bad, Hydra is-Hydra is bad, no, Hydra is good, no-

He makes a sound low in his throat, like a whine, head aching and pulsing with pain and thoughts spinning, fragmented and distorted, it's too much, he doesn't want it, he doesn't, make it stop, make it stop-

"Hey Barnes, you wanna try and tell us what's going on in your head?"

"You think I fucking know?" he snarls, shaking with rage, hands balling into fists at his side. His metal arm whirs. He feels himself twitch, head jerking to the left before angling down slightly, everything going blank and cold with rage. He narrows his eyes at Sam, lip curling.

Steve raises a hand in front of Sam, a silent  _stand down._ "Bucky."

He twitches again and then lunges, aiming for Steve's throat with his metal hand. 

_No!_ a voice screams in his head. The soldier's metal hand wraps around Steve's throat but he doesn't squeeze, shaking and gasping as his mind pulls itself apart. He is-he is not allowed to attack his handler, no, he is supposed to protect Steve, either way he isn't-he isn't supposed to hurt him, he can't-

"Sorry, I'm sorry," he chokes out. "Fuck-goddamn-"

He wrenches his hand away and stumbles backwards, sitting down heavily on the couch. He shakes his head again and shudders, the strange rage washing away.

"It's okay," Steve says slowly, he and Sam watching him warily. They're both unharmed, and something in the soldier's chest unknots. 

"No," he grits out. "No, I-no-"

He cuts off with a gasp as there's another burst of pain in his head, curling in on himself as he presses a hand to his forehead, metal hand digging into the edge of the couch cushion. His whole body trembles, ragged breaths punched from his chest. Memories push at his mind, overwhelming him.

_-Steve, hand reaching out. "Bucky! No!-"_

_-Falling-_

_-Red blood on white snow-_

_-"You are to be the new fist of Hydra-"_

_-Sam, patching up his side-_

_-"I'm with you till the end of the line-"_

_-His hand intertwined with Steve's, sides pressed together-_

_-"Wipe him, and start over-"_

_-Sam sitting in front of him, calm and steady-_

_"-You do not question-"_

_-"Barnes-"_

_-A hand striking his face-_

_-"Bucky-"_

The memories won't stop, a tide of jumbled fragments that make no sense, images and distorted sounds and pain and voices and he digs his fingers into his scalp, biting down on a scream.

"Make it stop," he chokes out. 

"Hey, we're right here," Sam says. "You can do this."

The soldier-Bucky-Barnes-the-the-he moves his metal hand to his thigh, digging his fingers in.

"Fuck....off," he pants out. He shudders again, a feeling like ice sliding down his spine. He digs his fingers in harder, feeling bruises bloom on his thigh. The pain gives him a focus, a direction for his swirling thoughts. Something clicks in his mind. He is-he is Bucky, he is in the tower, there was-there was the psychologist, and Steve, and the trigger words, he's under the trigger words-

"Fuck," he gasps. He struggles against the soldier in his mind, scrabbling at the walls of the cell.  _Come on, Barnes. Fight._

The memories start to slow, to order themselves in his mind. Knowledge slots into place. His mind is splitting apart, pain building and building. Bucky breaks through, gasping as he finally comes back to awareness, returning to his body with a jolt. His eyes fly open and he looks around, taking in his surroundings. He's in the trigger room, Steve and Sam sitting in front of him. His body is his own again. His mind is his own again.

He slumps, exhaling as the adrenaline drains away and exhaustion washes over him, breaths evening out. 

"Steve," he slurs. 

"Buck?" Steve sounds hopeful.

Bucky goes to nod but winces, head still aching. "Yeah," he croaks. "It's me."

He hears them both exhale in relief. 

"Welcome back," Sam says.

"How are you feeling?" Steve asks.

"Tired. Head hurts." He's barely keeping his eyes open, body soaked with sweat and still trembling faintly from the aftermath of the adrenaline. His sweaty hair sticks to the back of his neck and hangs in limp strands around his face, irritating him.

"Good for the post-assessment?"

"Yeah."

In between blinks Dr. Zahir steps into the room, Steve and Sam exiting. She sits down across from him and he makes an effort to straighten up, blinking to try and clear the fog from his mind.

"Name and date of birth?" she asks.

"James Buchanan Barnes. March 10, 1917."

"Affiliation with Hydra?"

"Former. Not by choice."

"Do you want to hurt anyone?"

"No."

"Who is Steve Rogers, and what is his relation to you?"

"The idiot who almost let me strangle him. Captain America. Friend."

Dr. Zahir smiles. "Welcome back."

He gives her a halfhearted smile in reply.

"I want to talk to you about this," she continues, "but you look like you're going to fall over. Get some rest and then we'll debrief afterwards."

He nods slightly. "Thanks."

She leaves and Steve returns, offering a hand to Bucky. He takes it, pulling himself up and swaying, Steve steadying him with a hand to his shoulder. 

"Alright?" he murmurs.

Bucky doesn't have the energy to respond. He shuffles towards the door, moving on autopilot. Dr. Jones comes up, removing the electrode from his temple. In between blinks the room moves around him, Steve's hand still on his shoulder. The floor moves under him and he realizes he's in the elevator. It stops with a ding and he stumbles out, feet taking him down the hall and into the bathroom. 

"Bath?" Steve questions.

Bucky nods even though it hurts, too tired to speak. Steve turns on the tap as Bucky struggles out of his sweat-soaked clothes, tossing them to the floor. There are finger-shaped bruises on his left thigh from where he'd gripped it with the metal hand, standing out starkly against his pale skin. He steps over to the tub, sinking into the warm water with a groan. The water laps at his midsection, still filling, but it's hot and soothing on his aching body and he feels his muscles unknot, body going boneless.

"Hair?" Steve murmurs.

Bucky nods slightly. There's the clink of a cup and then Steve crouches down beside the tub, dipping the cup in before starting to pour it over his hair. Once it's wet there's the click of a shampoo bottle and then Steve's hands are running over his head, pressing lightly against his scalp as he works the shampoo in. Bucky lets out a sigh, eyes slipping closed. Steve's fingers migrate up and then circle his temples, starting to press down. Bucky groans, the pain in his head lessening under Steve's skillful fingers. His head tips back and hits the edge of the tub, water lapping at his chest as Steve finally turns the tap off.

Steve chuckles. "Feel good?"

"Don't stop," Bucky mumbles.

Steve's calloused fingers press to his temples again, rubbing in small circles.

"I used to do this for you whenever you had a long day," Steve says softly. "Do you remember?"

Bucky makes an affirmative noise. Steve's hands have always been magic. He finds himself drifting off, warm and sleepy and relaxed, Steve's fingers gentle on his head.

"-ucky. Bucky."

Bucky cracks open his eyes, the world blurring. The water has gone cold, and Steve's hands are no longer on his temples, his hair feeling clean and rinsed. Steve crouches next to the tub, smiling softly, a towel in hand.

"You fell asleep. Come on, let's get you somewhere more comfortable."

Bucky takes his proffered hand, standing up with a groan and stepping out of the tub. Steve wraps a towel around him and hands him another for his hair, stealing away in search of clothes. Bucky scrubs at his wet hair tiredly, yawning. Steve's footsteps approach again and he returns bearing soft pants and a shirt. He hands the pants to Bucky, who puts them on and hands the wet towel to Steve, too tired to put it away. Next he pulls on the shirt, damp hair wetting the neck. He follows Steve out into the living room, heading straight for the couch and grabbing his blanket. He wraps it around himself and flops down, uncaring of his wet hair on the pillow. 

"Get some rest," Steve says softly. Bucky senses him sit down in the armchair.  _Right, watch,_ he thinks hazily. They can't leave him alone in case the triggers come back. It's comforting, having Steve near, and his eyes slip closed as he sinks into sleep again.

 


	16. Chapter 16

Bucky wakes slowly, light meeting his eyes as he cracks them open. He hears someone breathing close by, identifies them by smell. Sam. There's the soft rustle of a page turning. Bucky's head hurts, but nothing like the trigger session. It's dulled to a low ache, and his mind feels slightly muddled but his own. He's himself. The trigger words are quiet, locked away in the back of his mind. 

Bucky slowly sits up, yawning and stretching as his muscles ache in protest. He rearranges himself to sit crosslegged on the couch, blanket still thrown over him as Sam looks up from his book, inserting a bookmark and setting it on the coffee table.

"Afternoon," Sam says genially. "How are you feeling?"

Bucky shrugs. "Okay." He pauses, worrying his lip as the memories of the trigger reduction come back. "I'm sorry about...what I said, during. I know you were just trying to help."

Sam chuckles. "Barnes, you've said a lot worse to me."

Bucky winces. "Sorry about that, too."

"Hey, you were going through some shit. Yeah, you're an asshole sometimes, but I get it. And the important thing is that you realize it, and you apologize. That speaks volumes. Besides, that's just how we are. I give you just as much shit back." Sam smiles at him, eyes warm and forgiving.

Bucky cracks a small smile. "Yeah." He frowns as a thought comes to him. "Why did you...when I first got here, you helped me, all by yourself, and I didn't...you didn't get anything for it. You didn't even know me. Why?" He struggles to explain himself. "You didn't-you didn't have to do any of it. Why did you help me?"

Sam blows out a breath. "That's a good question. Well, at first it was because I was Steve's friend, and I was trying to help him. But then, I mean..I understood what had happened to you, and I saw someone good and...worth saving. I thought you deserved help after everything that had happened to you." He pauses. "And, well, if you want to get deep....I lost someone, like I said before. Riley. I couldn't save him. And here you were, and I guess I thought, if I could save you..." He shakes his head. "I don't know. I have a savior complex, I know. I'm a pararescue, or I was, and then I was a counselor for veterans. It's what I do. Just...I've met a lot of veterans in my life, and if there's anyone who deserves my help, it's you. Now?" He huffs a breath, looking up at Bucky. "Now I help you because you're my friend."

Bucky feels unexpectedly choked up. "You're...a good man. A good friend," he adds roughly. "And I don't know if I'm...worth all that, but I'm damn lucky to have you." He tips his head back, exhaling. "I'm a pretty shit friend, Wilson. I'm sorry." He meets his eyes again. "But I'd like to be. Friends, that is. Real ones. Not this..." He swallows. "I've got a therapist now. I don't want that to be us, that...one-sided. I want you to be a friend, for real."

Sam smiles, genuine and open, eyes slightly wet. "I'd love that," he says softly. "I'll back off being a therapist, I promise. Boundaries firmly set. Let's start over." He leans over, extending his hand. "Friends?"

Bucky smiles, and takes his hand. "Friends."

***

Dr. Zahir walks in, sitting in the armchair, Bucky still sitting crosslegged on the couch. His hand rests on his ankle, thumb tracing the cuff scars absentmindedly.

"Good afternoon," she greets him.

"Afternoon," he responds.

"How are you feeling?"

"Okay. Not triggered."

She nods. "I'd like to talk to you about the session. Do you remember everything that happened?"

Bucky nods. "Yeah. But it's like...it's like it wasn't me."

"You feel disconnected from the memories?"

"Yeah."

She nods again. "That's normal. You were in a dissociative state. It's surprising you remember at all." She pauses, studying him. "You said some things to me, while under the trigger words."

Bucky clenches his jaw, looking down at his lap. 

"How does that make you feel?" Dr. Zahir presses gently.

Bucky shrugs, shoulders tense, still looking down. 

There's a moment of silence. "I spoke to your lawyer," Dr. Zahir says levelly. "He said it would be helpful for me to watch the tapes, and review the evidence so I can make a psychological assessment of you during that time. Explain what they did to you on a psychological level. Prove you weren't in control."

Bucky's fingers tighten around his ankle. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Would you be okay with me doing that?"

He shrugs again. "It's not up to me."

"Yes it is. If you don't want me to watch them, I won't."

He chews his lip. "But it doesn't matter what I want. It's the best strategy for my defense."

He can hear her lean forward but doesn't look up. "Of course it matters what you want," she says gently but firmly. "You're allowed to have wants."

"I know!" he snaps, sharper than intended, the memories of the trigger session rising.  _I don't have wants._ God, he was pathetic. Something dark and shameful curls in his gut. "I know that," he grits out. "I'm not-" He cuts off, taking a shaky breath.

Dr. Zahir is silent for a moment. "Okay," she finally says. "But I still need an answer. Yes or no?"

He clenches his jaw. "Yes."

She hums slightly. "Okay. Let's go back to what you said. You know you can have wants now, but you didn't then. It's one of the things you said while triggered. How does that make you feel?"

"How do you think?"

"I want to hear it from you."

He knows he should give in, but he clutches his walls tighter around himself, around the nausea in his gut. "Why?"

"Because that's what I'm here for. You do remember I'm a therapist, right?" Her voice has just the right edge of sarcasm and pointedness that makes him lower his defenses _,_ feeling guilty. She's just here to help. He knows this.

"Sorry," he mutters, shoulders relaxing. He rubs his thumb over his ankle scars again. "I don't know. I feel...bad, I guess."

"Bad is not an emotion," Dr. Zahir points out. "Angry, sad, scared, ashamed, those are all emotions."

He digs his thumb in slightly. "Angry, I guess. Ashamed."

"Angry at whom?"

"Hydra." He bites his lip. "Myself," he admits.

"Why?"

"Because...I believed it. I thought..." He shakes his head. "They broke me. They made me think I wasn't-that I wasn't a person. And I believed it. I was just so fucking... _weak,"_ he spits. "I did whatever the fuck they told me to, and I didn't even...fight back." He clenches his fists.

"But you did fight back. You told me yourself. And they tortured you for it. How is that being weak?"

He shakes his head, everything he's been thinking, holding in for weeks building up and crashing over him in a wave. He thinks of Rumlow, following his orders even though he could've easily killed him. Lying still and compliant on the floor, silent as Rumlow cut into him. Walking over to the wall, letting himself be cuffed. Lying down on the motel bed, nothing stopping him from killing Rumlow and running. Missions, completely alone, able to just walk away. "I could've...I could've fought back. I could've killed them, I could've killed him but I just...let it happen. I gave in."

"Bucky." His name makes him look up, meeting Dr. Zahir's eyes. "There's nothing shameful about giving in to torture."

He shakes his head. "But I didn't just give in. I  _let_ it happen. I could've gotten free, or killed them. I was free, sometimes. There was nothing...nothing stopping me."

Dr. Zahir sighs. "Are you familiar with the concept of learned helplessness?"

He shakes his head, gaze dropping to his lap again.

"It's a behavior or mental state in which someone, or some animal, usually, endures repeatedly painful or aversive stimuli which it is unable to escape or avoid. After a while, it learns that it is helpless in situations where these stimuli are present, and that it has no control, and gives up trying." Dr. Zahir leans forward. "Even when the stimuli become escapable. I know this is disturbing to hear, but I need you to understand this. They did a study with dogs. The floor on one side of the cage was electrified, and the dogs could jump over a small partition to escape it. Don't worry, it was a small shock, not very painful, but uncomfortable. They dogs learned to jump over to the safe side as soon as they were put into the cage, to avoid the shock. But then with another group of dogs, there was no partition. The whole floor was electrified. They couldn't escape it or avoid it. After a while, the dogs simply laid down on the floor. And when they put them in the cage with the partition, can you guess what they did?"

Bucky frowns. "Jump over?"

"No. They laid down on the floor and took the shocks. They had learned that they couldn't escape or avoid them, so they didn't even try, even though they could have. Do you see how this might apply to you?"

Bucky shifts. "Maybe."

"You learned that you couldn't escape torture if you went against orders or questioned them. Plus, you were missing your memories, and they brainwashed and mind controlled you. They told you you were 'malfunctioning,' you said, and torture was somehow a way to fix you. Even if there was a chance you could have gotten free, or fought back, you wouldn't have even known to take it."

Bucky swallows, feeling tears prick at his eyes.  _Learned helplessness._ He certainly feels helpless. He felt helpless.

"What are you feeling right now?" Dr. Zahir questions softly.

"Angry. At Hydra. Sad. I just-" Bucky scrubs a hand over his face. "I don't know how-I can't-" He exhales shakily. "I don't want to...deal with this, I just-I don't want to remember, or-or think about it, I just want it...out of my head. I can't-it's just....too much." 

"I'm sure it's overwhelming. You've been through more than probably anyone else on this planet. But the longer you keep this bottled up, the longer you try to not remember or not deal with it, the worse you'll feel. The only way out is through. You have to face this head on. And yes, it's going to suck. I won't lie to you. It's going to feel like the last thing you want to do. But it's the only way to finally put this behind you."

Bucky stares down at his lap. "I'm not sure I can do it," he says quietly.

"That's what I'm here for. I'm going to guide you through the whole process, but I need you putting in work on your side."

"I do my part," Bucky says flatly.

"Except you can question. This is to help you. No scheme to take over the world." Bucky snorts softly. "Just helping you process your trauma. Can I count on you making the effort?"

Bucky takes a deep breath. "Yeah." He looks up. "What the hell, I guess it can't get any worse."

Dr. Zahir's lip twitches up. "That's the spirit."

***

"Alright, so what can we change for next time?" Dr. Zahir questions. "Was there anything that made the session worse?"

Bucky thinks. "Well, the questions weren't fun."

Dr. Zahir nods. "Your brainwaves were all over the place, even when you appeared calm."

"And....I mean, it helped me to remember, but when Steve and Sam tried to tell me things it...it was confusing. And painful."

"Should we maybe just leave you alone, see if they wear off naturally? It seemed like a very painful experience externally just from watching, and worse internally from what you've told me."

"It was." Bucky chews his lip. "Maybe. Definitely less talking. I don't know. It made me remember, so I guess it was good, even if I didn't want it at the time."

Dr. Zahir thinks. "Why don't we try a session where no one tries to get you to remember, and see if you can still come out of the trigger words?"

"Yeah. Actually...yeah. That's a good idea."

"It'll give us a baseline of how they affect you without intervention."

It's a good idea, especially if he gets triggered in the real world and there's no one there to spark his memories. "When?" he asks.

"Whenever you're ready."

"Tomorrow." 

"Are you sure?"

He nods. "I want to get this over with. I want them gone."

She nods. "Understandable. We'll have everything set up tomorrow morning. In the meantime, I'm going to start looking at the tapes. It's still up to you what you share with me."

Bucky sighs. "Everyone's already going to see it at the trial."

"How does that make you feel?"

"I don't know," he answers honestly. "I don't like it, but..." He shrugs. "It's the only way. I guess I'd rather you see them beforehand."

"Okay. I hear you. I'll see you tomorrow morning, and then I'd like another debrief session afterwards. We have our regularly scheduled CPT session in a few days. Have you written you impact statement yet?"

"Not yet. I will."

"Alright. Well, thank you for being so open and honest today. I think we're making a lot of progress. You were able to fight against the trigger words, and you don't seem to be suffering any after-effects. I think they might be losing their hold."

Bucky blinks. Now that he thinks about it, she might be right. He feels a spark of hope. "Yeah. Maybe."

"If you do have any serious after-effects, have Jarvis call me. I don't care what time it is."

He nods. "Thank you. For everything."

She stands up. "You're welcome. Take it easy."

With a smile and a wave she leaves, Bucky sagging into the couch cushions. He looks up. "Jarvis, where is everyone?"

"Captain Rogers, Mr. Wilson, and Ms. Romanoff are still on the training floor," Jarvis replies. "Ms. Potts arrived this morning, and she and Sir are currently enjoying a late lunch."

"Thanks, Jarvis." Bucky gets up, venturing into his bedroom to throw on shoes before making his way down to the training floor. He finds Steve, Sam, and Natalia sitting on the floor talking, but they stop when they see him walk in. 

"Hey," he says, raising an eyebrow. "I thought this was a training floor. What are you all doing sitting around?"

They laugh and get up. "Gossiping," Natalia replies primly. 

Bucky rolls his eyes. "Of course." He wonders if it was about him.

Her eyes sparkle. "Want to spar? I promise not to punch you in the face this time. Or, well, I can't promise that, but I'll try."

Bucky grins. "You're on."

***

He collapses on the couch, damp hair smelling of citrus and muscles aching pleasantly. Steve smiles at him from the other end.

"Feeling better?"

Bucky nods. He hesitates, biting his lip. "Steve..."

Steve looks at him, serious again. "What?"

"Just...how are you? I mean, you had to say the trigger words, and see me like that..." He swallows. "Are you okay?"

Steve's face softens. "Well, it wasn't fun, but I'm okay. Especially because you're here, and you're...yourself again."

"We're going to do it again tomorrow."

Steve nods. "I know."

"And this time...you can't try to get me to remember. I have to do it on my own."

"Okay."

Bucky sighs. "How are you okay with this?"

Steve shifts to face him fully. "I'm not. It kills me to do that to you, and to see you like that. But I know this is your choice, and it's helping you. I have to be okay with that."

Bucky studies him. "You've changed. You never woulda been able to do that before."

"Yeah." Steve looks sad. "I have changed." He pastes on a small smile. "But that's a good thing. I'm better than I was before."

Bucky shakes his head. "No. Not better....different."

"Sure." Steve looks troubled. 

"I don't mean you're bad now," Bucky says in exasperation. "I just mean...I liked you before. I loved you. Even when you were small and skinny and no one else seemed to see you. After they made you big, that's what I wanted you to know. You're not  _better._ You're different."

Steve's eyes soften and a real smile comes to his face. "Buck."

"I loved you then and I love you now," Bucky continues. "Ain't nothing gonna change that."

Steve stretches out a hand and Bucky takes it, pulling himself closer until his right side presses against Steve's left, their hands entwined between them. Bucky tips his head and rests it on Steve's shoulder, inhaling his familiar scent. 

"I love you too," Steve murmurs. "I loved you then and I love you now. Ain't nothing gonna change that."

Bucky grips Steve's hand tighter, eyes slipping shut.

***

Bucky sits down on the couch, taking deep breaths to settle his nerves. Steve stands in front of him, book in hand, and he can see everyone watching through the glass in front of him before someone hits a switch and the glass ripples, becoming opaque. He can't see them anymore, and he can't hear them through the soundproofed glass, though he knows they'll be able to hear and see him once he's triggered.

"Ready?" Steve asks.

Bucky nods. "See you on the other side."

Steve opens the book and takes a step to Bucky's right.

_"Longing."_

_"Rusted."_

_"Seventeen"_

_"Daybreak."_

_"Furnace."_

_"Nine."_

_"Benign."_

_"Homecoming."_

_"One."_

_"Freight car."_

Knowledge settles into place and the soldier opens his eyes, breathing evenly. He is the Winter Soldier. He serves Russia and Hydra. The man who said the words is his handler. He does not question. He is not human.

The handler stops in front of him and closes the book. The soldier's eyes flick to him.

_"Good morning, soldier,"_ the handler says in accented Russian.

_"Ready to comply,"_ the soldier responds.

The handler leaves the room. The soldier sits, waiting. A minute passes, then another. The handler doesn't return. The soldier thinks of a dark cell lined with restraints. He must be being left for a while until they need him. He glances around. There's a camera in the corner, and he can't see through the glass in front of him, as if it were a solid wall. The whole room appears to be made of the same non-transparent glass, presumably soundproofed like the cell, though there are no restraints and he is sitting on...a couch? That is strange. They never give him anything to sit on in the cell, much less something as comfortable as this. He has vague memories of mattresses in the Russian base, though. This must be Russia. Is he in Russia? No, that seems wrong. He is in America, but the Americans...they don't have the words, he thinks. They don't have the words, yet there was the words. Did they get the words? Where is he?  _When_ is he? Everything is jumbled, memories overlapping and indistinct. He can't-he can't remember. What is he supposed to be doing? Who is-there was a new handler, he doesn't recognize him, but he  _does,_ he knows him-

He forces the tangle of thoughts down, retreating into blankness. He will wait. He does not question. He knows this, the hours left in the cell, though usually it is darker. The soldier draws his legs up, sitting crosslegged on the couch and resting his hands on his legs as he finds that calm quiet in his mind and goes there, the world disappearing into nothingness as he stares ahead blankly.

The door opens and the soldier blinks back to awareness, pain spiking through his head. The handler steps through and the soldier watches him, waiting for instructions. 

"Hey," his handler says softly. "Just checking on you. It's been a couple hours."

The soldier does not respond. He is not expected to. A couple hours. He files that information away, though he has no frame of reference for when he woke up here. His handler is...checking on him? He must want to make sure the soldier is still functional. Something tugs at him, something about the handler's face, his voice, his smell, the way something in the soldier's chest pulses warm and bright-

"Okay, I'm going to leave again," his handler says. "Just wanted to make sure you were okay." He steps back through the door, closing it behind him. The soldier blinks. 

Something is...not right. This is not the base in Siberia, or the cell in America. The handler is not Russian, and not Hydra-

_What._ How does he-of course the handler must be Hydra. But something tells the soldier  _no, he's not Hydra, Hydra is bad-_

His head twitches slightly and his fingers curl into loose fists. Hydra is good. Hydra is giving the world the freedom it deserves. He does his part. Then why-why does that feel wrong? It feels hollow, falseness echoing through it. Something in him rebels against it,  _hates_ it, is  _angry,_ he is  _angry-_

He shudders slightly, retreating back into blankness. 

The door opens and he blinks back to awareness, the pain in his head redoubled. A woman steps through, olive skin and black hair and sharp grey eyes. The soldier senses people outside the door before she closes it behind her, approaching. She sits down across from him. 

"We don't think the solitary isolation approach is working because you keep dissociating whenever someone leaves the room. So I'm going to sit here to keep you grounded, but I'm not someone that will trigger memories."

The soldier doesn't know what she's talking about. None of this makes sense. Where is he? What is going on? Why are they doing this? Who are they? His eyes dart to the door. There are people behind it, he's sure of it. What are they doing? Maybe they're watching him. Maybe this is a test. He doesn't-he doesn't know what he's supposed to do. The handler is nowhere in sight. The woman...is she a tech? There were rarely women in Hydra, or in Russia. Where is his handler?

His head pounds. He is-he is in a cell, but it is not the cell. But he knows-he knows what happens in the cell. He remembers. He always remembers corrections. Sudden fear takes hold of him. He doesn't want to be here, he can't-this is-this is wrong, he's supposed to-to  _fight back, goddamnit-_

_I didn't just give in,_  his own voice echoes through his mind. _I let it happen. I could've gotten free, or killed them. I was free, sometimes. There was nothing...nothing stopping me._

The woman is sitting in the chair reading something. She isn't watching him. The soldier glances back at the door. He doesn't see a way to open it from the inside, but he knows the people are out there. They must be able to open it. His gaze flicks back to the woman. There is nothing stopping him. But he doesn't-he doesn't  _want_ to kill her. But he needs to fight back, he needs to escape, he can't go back,  _please, no, I don't want to go back, please-_

His head pounds. There are memories pushing at him, overwhelming him, but panic whites them out, nothing existing except the need to escape, to make everything stop, to find his handler, no, to find-to find-

He uncurls in one motion, kicking out the leg out the chair and wrapping his metal arm around the woman's throat as he grabs the chair, breaking off a piece of wood to use as a weapon. He faces the door, the woman's heart beating rapidly against his chest. His metal arm is firm but loose around her neck, the jagged piece of wood clutched in his right hand and her body pressed against his. She doesn't struggle, though he can sense her fear.

_"Open. The. Door,"_ the soldier snarls in Russian, knowing they're watching. 

The door opens and his handler steps through, hands raised.

"Bucky, hey, just tell me what's going on. No one's going to hurt you."

The soldier realizes he's shaking, mind staticky and blank with panic. _He can't disobey his handler._ But he needs to escape, needs to leave. The imperative overrides the fear.  _"Let me go."_

Something buzzes and the handler carefully withdraws a phone, looking at it before looking back at the soldier.

"You're not a prisoner," he says evenly. "But I can't let you hurt anyone. Please, let Dr. Zahir go and then we can figure this out."

The soldier tightens his grip, raising the piece of wood to the woman's side threateningly.  _"Let. Me. Go."_

He feels the woman choke slightly under his tight grip and loosens it, feeling something like guilt tug at him. 

The handler's phone buzzes again and he glances at it. "Okay. Um, we're backing off. We'll let you go wherever. Can you promise not to hurt Dr. Zahir if we do that?"

The soldier gives a sharp nod. The handler starts to back from the room and the soldier nudges the woman forward, following him. She stumbles slightly but walks, the soldier readjusting his grip to make it easier.

"Sorry," he whispers in her ear, though he doesn't know why. She is not his objective. He has no intention of hurting her. He doesn't  _want_ to hurt her.

They exit the room, finding a group of people clustered outside. He's potentially outmatched, but he has leverage. He spots an elevator across the hall and starts to make his way towards it, walking backwards as the people stand with hands raised. He feels the doors against his back, keeping his eyes trained on the people and wood clenched tightly in his right hand.

"Hit the button," he says lowly to the woman. She reaches behind her and hits the button, the doors opening. He backs in, waiting until the doors close before releasing the woman, stumbling back into the corner of the elevator as panic claws at him. What is he-what is he doing? He just-he tried to escape, they will find him, they will find him and hurt him, he went against orders, he disobeyed his handler,  _why did he do that-_

He can't breathe. He is-he is malfunctioning, he can't breathe, he will be punished, what is happening, make it stop, _make it stop_ -

"-breathe. With me, can you do that?"

His eyes find the woman's, who is standing on the opposite side of the elevator. The elevator isn't moving. The walls press in on him, trapping him, encasing him in darkness, cloth over his eyes and feet dragging on the ground-

"-ey, hey. It's just me. No one else is here. You're safe."

He blinks back to awareness, breaths coming in wheezing gasps and body trembling. His vision is blurring, dark spots dancing in front of his eyes, and he feels himself slide down the wall to sit on the floor, knees drawing up and hands clutching his head as the panic courses through him, the piece of wood dropping to the floor with a clatter. He is malfunctioning, he needs to escape, he needs to-he is weak,  _come on Barnes, get it together,_ he needs...a strategy, he needs a strategy, an exit plan, he's a highly trained operative, he can't malfunction, failure is not an option,  _why the fuck can't he get off the floor-_

He is still malfunctioning, and it won't stop. He is...a failure. They will find him again, because he is still in the elevator. Because he can't get off the goddamn floor. He lost his chance at escaping minutes ago. What is wrong with him? He's the Winter Soldier. He doesn't fail. 

His head pounds. He is not the soldier, no, he is- _fuck-_ he is the soldier, he serves Russia and Hydra, no, that's not right, he is- _Hydra is bad, Russia is bad-_ where is he? What is-what is going on, he is-he is in the Tower, there were the words- _trigger reduction-_ and he-and he tried to escape, but why? Then there was the handler, the man, he knows the man- _Steve-_

"Steve," he rasps, breaths still coming in pants. "Where is Steve?"

"He's probably right where you left him," the woman- _Dr. Zahir-_ says calmly. He realizes she is sitting on the floor opposite him. Unthreatening. "Do you want to see him?"

"No, I don't-I don't know-" the soldier squeezes his eyes shut against the pain in his head, everything confusing and bright and loud as memories rush in, overwhelming him. He is-he is  _Bucky,_ he is in the Tower, he is in the  _fucking elevator, why the fuck did he do that,_ there was trigger reduction and he-he freaked out and now he's here,  _fuck-_

"What. The  _fuck._ Am I doing here," he grits out. "Jesus Christ."

"Well, I did wonder," Dr. Zahir says lightly.

Bucky,  _Bucky_ laughs raggedly, leaning his head back against the corner of the elevator with a thud as his breaths slow, the memories swirling and slotting into place as realization dawns and he jolts back into his body with a shudder. He blinks, the harsh lights of the elevator meeting his eyes. What the  _fuck._ Why the hell had he thought it was a good idea to try and  _break out of Avengers tower with a hostage._ And then not even make it past the elevator because he had a panic attack. The Winter Soldier is a fucking idiot, apparently. 

"That did...not go to plan," he rasps. He lifts his head, looking at Dr. Zahir. "I'm sorry."

She shakes her head. "You were never trying to hurt me. You just used me to get away. You even apologized." She smiles wryly. 

Bucky squints, remembering. "I guess I did." He looks down. "I didn't want to hurt you. I remember that. You weren't-I wasn't going to hurt you."

"I know. That was pretty clear, once I got over the initial terror. Why do you think your friends let you go?"

Bucky sighs, rubbing his temple. "Oh God. What was I thinking?" He groans. "I didn't even make it past the elevator. What the  _fuck_ was I thinking?"

"I think you're supposed to tell me that," Dr. Zahir says. "What made you try to...escape, I guess?"

Bucky thinks. "I...don't know. I just...knew I needed to escape. I needed to get away. I was..." He swallows. "Afraid. I just remember being afraid. And confused."

"You seemed to come out of the trigger words more easily this time, though," Dr. Zahir points out.

Bucky blinks. He'd barely noticed. One minute he'd been the soldier, the next... "Oh," he says. "Yeah. And I don't feel as bad. How long did it take?"

Dr. Zahir looks at her watch. "Five hours."

Bucky stares. " _Five_ hours?" Last time had been under an hour.

"You were dissociated for most of it. Your brainwaves were almost nonexistent. Steve checked in after two hours, and there was a blip but you went back under, and then after three more we decided it wasn't working. That's why I came in. We thought I wouldn't trigger any memories, but I could at least make your brain come back online."

"That turned out well," Bucky says bitterly.

Dr. Zahir shakes her head. "This is progress. You broke the triggers much easier and much faster once you were awake and aware. And I even think your escape attempt was progress. You were trying to fight back."

Bucky turns this over in his mind. "But I didn't even make it past the fucking elevator," he grumbles. "Some escape attempt."

"You had a panic attack. What were you feeling that brought it on?"

Bucky raises an eyebrow. "Fear. I thought...well, I kinda thought 'what the hell did I just do.'" Bucky cracks a self-deprecating smile. "I thought that they were gonna find me, and there'd be hell to pay. I just disobeyed orders and my handler and kidnapped you. I mean..." he swallows. "That was...terrifying. And then the walls...closed in on me. I thought I was back in the cell. And then I was cursing myself because I was freaking out in an elevator instead of making an escape plan, and I realized that there was no chance of escaping by then. I'd fucked everything up. I was..malfunctioning. I'm the fucking Winter Soldier, and I just..." He clenches his fist.

"Even legendary assassins can be brought down by panic attacks," Dr. Zahir says gently. "It means you're finally processing your trauma. Before, you would just keep going, shove it down. You didn't even know you were traumatized. But now you have a chance to feel it, and that's okay. Yeah, it was a terrible escape plan, but you weren't really thinking any further than getting out of that room. Everyone knew that. You weren't going anywhere even if you were really trying to. You were under the influence of trigger words and PTSD, and all your actions were completely understandable." 

Bucky sighs. He knows this, but still. He feels so...weak. 

"PTSD doesn't care how strong you are," Dr. Zahir continues, as if she read his mind. "Just because you used to be able to do a lot of things doesn't mean that was good. You were being forced to do things under torture and brainwashing, so you had no choice but to keep going no matter what you felt or thought. That's not circumstances we want to replicate." She leans forward. "This was a good thing. This is progress."

Bucky sighs again and nods. "Yeah."

"Good. Now, can we please get out of this elevator?"

Bucky laughs raggedly, head aching. "Yes. Definitely."

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Remembering of past sexual assault in context of attempted sexual activity, discussion of past sexual assault in therapy  
> There is a lot of misinterpretation going on. Bucky misinterprets some things Steve says, and it seems like Steve is being horrible but he's actually not. He doesn't react the best, but he's dealing with his own issues surrounding it and was actually trying to do the right thing. Bucky's perceptions are warped by his trauma.
> 
> And yes, my statistics are correct. Sadly.
> 
> [https://1in6.org/get-information/the-1-in-6-statistic/ ](https://1in6.org/get-information/the-1-in-6-statistic/)

_-He pins Steve down, hands intertwined on the bed and bare skin warm against his. He rolls his hips and Steve gasps under him as Bucky mouths over his neck, sinking his fangs in-_

He wakes with a jerk, heart pounding and body thrumming with something that isn't fear. He shifts and feels heat crawl up his face as he realizes his...problem. He takes several deep breaths, willing it away.  _Fuck._ He hasn't dealt with something as mundane as morning wood in...seventy years. He drops his head back against the couch, blowing out a breath. He supposes it's better than nightmares. But he's not sure how to feel about it. This is the first time his body has shown any interest in seventy years, since he was in the war. And now...sex isn't something he thinks he can do anymore. Not after Rumlow. 

Thinking about that is more effective than a cold shower in making his arousal go down. Now he just feels cold and empty and unclean, shame curling in his gut. His skin crawls. He turns over and presses his face into the pillow in frustration, feeling hot tears well up. He can't even have this one thing. He's so...broken that he can't even get morning wood without it turning sour. He can't give Steve what he needs. He knows Steve would never pressure him, would wait forever, but surely it's killing him. Bucky just wants...he wants to be okay. He wants to be not broken. He wants to be able to have a normal relationship with Steve. He wants to do so many things, but Hydra took them from him. They took everything.  _PTSD doesn't care how strong you are,_ Dr. Zahir had said yesterday. He knows that, but he  _hates_ it. He hates that they broke him, that they left him barely a shell of a person. He hates everything that's happened to him. He hates that he has to deal with it now. He hates everything. He hates himself. 

Bucky gets up, throwing the blanket off and striding across the room as his rage simmers. He gets to the elevator and pushes the button, but nothing happens.

"Sergeant Barnes, may I inquire where you are going?" Jarvis asks quietly.

Bucky clenches his jaw. "Training floor."

"I will need to send someone else with you," Jarvis says apologetically. 

Bucky lets out a frustrated sigh, fists clenching. Right. He's not allowed to be alone. "Fine," he grits out. "Just let me down first."

The elevator doors open. Bucky stomps inside, hitting the button for the training floor. The elevator descends and opens up to the quiet floor, dark and still in the early hours of the morning. Bucky doesn't bother turning on the lights, able to see in the dark. He heads for the punching bags, feeling rage burning beneath his skin, consuming him. His bare feet are quiet on the floor. He is alone, for the moment. He pushes a button on the wall and the punching bags move to encircle him. He reaches the first bag and winds up, slamming his fist into it with a scream. It feels good, the shocks traveling up his arm into his body. He does it again, and again, until he starts to relax into the familiar motions of fighting, whirling and kicking at the other bags as his breaths come in short, even pants and his mind goes blank, nothing else existing except for the feel of his body cutting through the air, precise and controlled. His body is his own. _His body is his own._ If only he could believe it. He hears someone enter the floor but ignores them. Something twinges in his chest and he realizes it's Steve, which only makes the horrible pit in his stomach grow worse.

He remembers, the second day he'd come to the tower. When he'd gotten the memories of Steve and Rumlow mixed up. When he didn't know the fucking difference between sex and rape. When Steve had to fucking leave because of it. He punches the bag harder, gritting his teeth. And Steve knows. Steve knows what happened to him. Every time he looks at Bucky, that's all he must see. That Bucky was so fucking  _weak_ that he let that happen to him. That he was scared of  _Steve_ because of it. That he can barely even touch Steve beyond holding hands or leaning against him. He drives his metal fist into the bag over and over. That he's still...so...fucking... _broken-_

The chain snaps and the bag goes flying across the room as Bucky pants for breath, body shaking and soaked with sweat. He hears Steve's footsteps come up behind him and turns, pushing through the circle of punching bags, mind blank and filled with static. He strides up to Steve and shoves him backwards, into the wall, metal hand fisted in his shirt as he presses his mouth to Steve's. Steve flails, caught off guard, before relaxing into the kiss, mouth opening up to let Bucky in. Bucky presses against him, right hand settling on Steve's hip and metal one snaking around to Steve's back. Steve's hands come to Bucky's sides and he flinches, Steve immediately pulling his hands away and breaking the kiss. 

"Bucky-" he pants, voice laced with worry.

Bucky cuts him off with a kiss, pressing against him harder. He can feel Steve's arousal, and swallows down the nausea that churns in his stomach as he rolls his hips against Steve, willing himself to match it. Nothing happens. Helpless frustration arises and he moves his right hand down, slipping under the waistband of Steve's pants. Steve makes a breathy sound but grabs his wrist, shoving Bucky back gently until he breaks the kiss. 

"Bucky. Are you okay?" Steve tries to meet his eyes but Bucky can't, he can't let Steve see what's in his mind and he hastily nods, ducking his head to mouth at Steve's neck. Steve moans under him, head dropping back against the wall and hands fisted at his sides. Bucky presses closer, getting a leg between Steve's and rolling his hips before he remembers that Steve can certainly feel his lack of interest. Sure enough Steve stiffens, and Bucky feels the world crash around his ears as he pulls back slightly.

"Buck. Are you sure you're okay? You're not..."

Bucky nods in the darkness, fists clenching. "Fine. Give it a minute. Just...keep going." He grabs Steve by the shirt and pulls him in for a kiss again, both of them twisting on instinct until Bucky's back hits the wall, Steve's hands caging him in. Panic spikes before everything goes numb and distant, and Bucky feels himself moving without conscious awareness, returning Steve's openmouthed kisses and running his hands up and down Steve's sides as his mind fills with static. 

Steve breaks the kiss to trail kisses down his jaw. "Here, let me help," he breathes against Bucky's neck, hand trailing down his side towards the waistband of his pants. Bucky doesn't flinch, mind whiting out with panic, and Steve takes that as a good sign, pressing light kisses to his neck as his hand skims over his skin gently. Bucky feels frozen, unable to move or speak or do anything but stay still and relaxed under Steve, breaths still coming evenly.

_Don't move a muscle,_ Rumlow's voice whispers in his ear.  _Don't make a sound._

Steve's hand stops on his waistband, hot breath wafting over Bucky's neck.

"Still okay?" he murmurs.

Bucky can't respond, can't move a muscle, can't make a sound, eyes fixed on a point over Steve's shoulder. 

"Bucky?" Steve sounds worried. He removes his hand, pulling back to look at him. "Buck, look at me."

Bucky's eyes snap to his, wide and unblinking and filled with terror. He sees Steve's face crease in confusion and worry before realization sparks in his eyes and he takes a step back, expression crumpling.

"You're not okay. You-you haven't been okay. This whole time..." His eyes fill with horror. "I almost-I would have-Of course you're not okay with this, how could I-" He takes another step back. "Why the hell did you say you were okay?"

Feeling starts to come back to Bucky's limbs and he shakes his head, breaths hitching.

Steve takes a step forward. "Answer me!"

Bucky flinches, pressing against the wall as his breathing picks up and terror flows through his body. Steve immediately steps back, looking crushed and horrified and angry. Bucky feels tears prick at his eyes.

"You made me do that," Steve says flatly. "You made me think it was okay...you made me like  _him-"_ His expression twists. "How could you do that?"

Bucky shakes his head again, gasping for breath as the panic attack sweeps over him. Steve takes a step back, then another, staring at Bucky with a mixture of horror and anger.

"I need to go. I have to-I need to go." He turns and flees as Bucky crumples to the ground, sobbing and shaking. Steve hates him. Steve is disgusted by him, by what has been done to him. Steve thinks he is broken.  _Steve hates him._

Bucky draws his knees up, curling over them as he wheezes for breath, a ringing in his ears and vision blurring as tears spill down his face. Panic builds and builds until something snaps and everything goes numb and quiet as he retreats into his mind.

***

He blinks back to awareness slowly, everything feeling hazy and numb. There's someone breathing next to him, smell slightly familiar. He turns his head, seeing Dr. Zahir sitting against the wall a few feet away writing something on a notepad. Bucky blinks again, rubbing his face and taking a breath as feeling comes back to his body, the memories of what happened flooding in and sending a wave of shame through him. He stares down at his knees, wishing the floor would open up and swallow him whole.

"Do you know where you are?" Dr. Zahir's voice questions softly.

Bucky nods, gaze still trained down. 

"Would you like to talk about what happened?"

Bucky shakes his head, lips pressed together. She probably already knows. 

"I got called in by a very upset Steve Rogers," Dr. Zahir says evenly. "He wouldn't tell me what happened, only that he couldn't be here for you right now and you needed to talk to me. I came in a little while ago and found you dissociated. I know you may not want to talk about it, but I can't help you if I don't know what happened."

So she doesn't know what happened. That's good at least. He doesn't need anyone else knowing how fucked-up he is, especially a woman. This isn't something that's okay to talk about. It's shameful, wrong. Bucky digs the thumb of his metal hand into his thigh, staying silent. No one can help him.

Dr. Zahir stays silent as well, waiting. For some reason this infuriates Bucky. He digs his thumb harder into his thigh, feeling it bruise, the pain welcome.

"Bucky, I need you to stop hurting yourself." Dr. Zahir's voice is gentle but firm. It only makes Bucky feel worse. He doesn't deserve her kindness, her understanding. He clenches his jaw, digging the rest of his fingers in. "I don't want to bring Steve in here, but I will," she says sharply.

Bucky lets go like he's been burned. 

"Thank you. Now, it seems like something happened with Steve, am I right?"

Bucky shrugs, staring down at his lap, hands resting on his drawn-up knees. 

"Bucky, I can't help you unless you talk to me."

"He hates me." It slips out without his permission, quiet and hoarse.

"Well, I'm pretty sure that's not true, but let's work through this first. What makes you say that?"

Maybe he can bend the truth. "He was...angry," he says. "He left."

"What was he angry about?" Dr. Zahir presses.

"That I..." He blinks. He's not even sure what Steve was angry about. That Bucky was faking? That he couldn't do it? He was too broken? "I don't know," he says honestly.

"Okay, well what was happening at the time?"

Bucky shifts. "I can't..." He swallows. "This isn't something...you should hear."

"Why not?"

He picks at a thread on the knee of his sweatpants. "You're a woman. It's not...appropriate."

"To hell with that," Dr. Zahir says, making Bucky look over at her. "This isn't the forties. I'm a psychologist. It's my job to listen to everything, no matter how terrible or upsetting or inappropriate. It's my job to deal with that."

Right. Times have changed. Bucky supposes he's already sworn in front of her, which would have been absolutely wrong back then. But this...

He chews his lip. "We were...kissing."

"Okay. And is that something that is new? Your...relationship?"

He shakes his head. "No. We...we've been together since I was seventeen." He looks up at Dr. Zahir, setting his jaw. "Is that a problem?"

Her face softens. "Of course not. I am a bit surprised, but I have no problem with that."

Bucky nods, turning his gaze back to his knees again.

"So what happened that led to Steve being angry?" Dr. Zahir prods.

Bucky bites his lip again, feeling traitorous tears gather in his eyes. He blinks them away. "I was..." He swallows, chin trembling. "I wanted...to prove I could, that I wasn't..." His fist clenches. "But I-I couldn't, and I..pretended I was okay, and then I wasn't and I-I couldn't move, or speak, and I-and Steve realized, and he-he stopped, but he was angry, he was...he hated me and he left and I panicked and-and-" His voice cracks and he ducks his head, fingers digging into his knees as he tries to breathe evenly.

"Steve got angry because the contact triggered a panic attack?" Dr. Zahir questions, a note of disbelief in her voice. 

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut briefly. "No...I don't know, he said-he said I made him like-like-that I made him think it was okay but it wasn't. I-" He swallows, fists clenching and unclenching on his knees. "When I first got here, the second day. I-I had a nightmare and I...mixed up memories. I couldn't tell the difference between-between-" He takes a shuddering breath. "And Steve had to leave. For three weeks. And I know-I know the difference, now, I-but I still can't-I can't-and I-he hates me, he knows and he hates me, I can't-"

"Breathe, Bucky. Take your time. Allow yourself to feel whatever it is you're feeling."

Bucky takes shaky breaths, body trembling. 

"I need you to slow down and tell me again," Dr. Zahir says soothingly. "I'm having a hard time understanding you. You said Steve had to leave after you first got here. Something about mixing up memories?"

Bucky leans his head back against the wall, panic filtering into resignation. "I had...memories of Steve and I...together. And sometimes we got..." He swallows. "Rough. And I couldn't-I couldn't tell the difference between...they blurred together with-with-" He closes his eyes, fists clenching. "I know-I know the difference now, I-"

"Know the difference between what?" she presses.

"Between-between sex and-and-" He clenches his jaw, eyes still squeezed shut.

"And rape?" Dr. Zahir finishes softly.

Bucky flinches, chin trembling. "It didn't really...hit me until this morning. I-I had a dream, and I was angry so I came down here, and Steve followed, and-I guess I just...wanted to prove I still could, so I-I kissed him, and I told him I was okay but I wasn't, and things...escalated, and I panicked, but I couldn't-I couldn't say anything, or move, it was like-like I wasn't in control, and Steve realized and stopped, but he was upset. He asked why I hadn't said anything and I didn't-I didn't know, and he got angry, and he said I made him just like... like  _him_ and that-that he needed to leave. Steve knows, he knew, the techs told him the first day I got here, and-and I've tried before, but I can't, and he's careful, but...he must-he must hate me, he must not want me anymore, he-" Bucky's voice cracks and a tear escapes his closed lids.

"Thank you for telling me this," Dr. Zahir says. "I know this is very difficult to talk about, and I'm glad you trust me with this. I just want you to consider for a moment, is there a chance you're misinterpreting Steve's words? That you're attributing thoughts to him that aren't his?"

Bucky opens his eyes, staring at the ceiling. "I don't know. But he must...I don't know. It's just-this isn't-it doesn't happen..."

"To men?" Dr. Zahir finishes.

Bucky nods.

"Well, that's a lie," she says bluntly. Bucky turns to look at her in surprise. "Research has found that at least one in six men have been sexually abused or assaulted in their lifetime."

He blinks.  _One in six?_  

"And from what I've seen of Steve," she continues, "he would never think less of you for that. Have you considered that it might be traumatic for him to be associated with sexual assault in your mind? It sounds like you were becoming sexual, and he felt that he was acting as your rapist given that you weren't okay with it."

Bucky stares and blinks, mind reeling. That...makes sense. "But..." he tries. "I know he wouldn't...do that."

"You didn't know that before. You said you mixed up the memories, that you couldn't tell the difference. That's not something that Steve can easily forget. And you still panicked when you attempted to be sexual with him. It doesn't matter if you know logically, the trauma is still there. For him as well as you."

Bucky drops his head into his hands. "Oh god." He hurt Steve. He made Steve think...

"This is no one's fault," Dr. Zahir says firmly. "Both of you made some mistakes, and you didn't communicate, and there was misunderstandings on both sides. The important thing is that you realize that."

Bucky nods, dropping his hands.

"Now that that's addressed, let's talk a little more about this. You said it just hit you this morning?"

Bucky nods, blowing out a breath. "I mean, I knew, and I-I'd have nightmares about it, and everything, but it hadn't...sunk in yet? There was still so much other stuff going on that I pushed it down. I tried to forget about it. Um, but then, this morning, I had a dream." Bucky looks sideways at Dr. Zahir, cheeks coloring. "Not a nightmare. It was, um, about Steve."

Dr. Zahir smiles slightly. "Yes, I do know what sex dreams are."

Bucky finds himself relaxing, clearing his throat. "Right. Well, then I woke up and I was..."

"Aroused?"

Bucky's cheeks flame. "Jesus Christ, this is awkward. How the hell are you talking about this?"

Dr. Zahir laughs. "I'm a psychologist. I can talk about anything. And there's nothing shameful or wrong in talking about sex."

Bucky clears his throat again. "So, yeah. That hasn't happened in seventy years. But then I started thinking that I didn't think I could do sex anymore, because of what happened, and I just...I dunno. I got real angry. I just felt like...I want to be okay, and I'm not. I'm broken. I can't give Steve what he needs, I can't do anything...normal. And Steve knows what happened to me and...I just can't do that. That's all he must see. I can barely even touch him, most of the time. I just...hated everything. So I went down here to punch some stuff, only I'm not allowed to be alone so Steve came and then...everything happened."

Dr. Zahir nods. "It's normal to feel this way. You're finally processing this, so it hit you hard. I'm spotting a few stuck points in what you said, but we can work on them later. Walk me through what happened with Steve. You said you couldn't move or speak?"

"Yeah. I was...okay, or okay enough, but then Steve pinned me to the wall. And I...I just kept going, I was kissing back and everything, but it was like I couldn't control my body. And then it got worse, and I just..I couldn't move, or speak, or do anything. And Steve asked if I was okay, and I couldn't answer. He just...when he realized, he looked crushed. Horrified. And then he got angry. I thought he hated me."

"That feeling, of not being able to move or speak, of not being in control, have you experienced that before?"

Bucky shakes his head. "Not-not really, now. But I-" He takes a breath. "It was...before. I wasn't allowed to move, or make a sound. I kept hearing his voice in my ear. And when it used to-to happen, I'd always...check out. Dissociate. I just...let it happen."

Dr. Zahir purses her lips. "You remember our conversation about learned helplessness?"

Bucky nods grudgingly. "I know. It's just..."

"Hard."

Bucky nods.

"I hear you. That's something we can work on in our sessions. You said 'used to happen.' Is this something that happened more than once?"

Bucky nods. "There was an agent. In DC. Rumlow. He was my handler in the field. At first it was just in the cell, as...torture. It started when Pierce had to go to New York and left him in charge. I questioned his plan for the mission, and I got blown up. He was angry. Said I did it on purpose to make him look bad. He told me not to say anything. And then...when I was out of cryo next he did it again, for no reason. Made me feed to erase any evidence, and told me not to tell anyone. Then I...snapped and killed a bunch of agents. So he..." He swallows. "Made sure I wouldn't do it again. But the techs figured out what he'd been doing. They were angry. They told Pierce. But he didn't care. Rumlow said they'd already done too much damage to my body to keep torturing me the normal way, and Pierce just said he didn't care as long as I was functional. But it wasn't torture. Most of the time, he didn't do it as...punishment for something. It just happened. Whenever I was awake and in my cell, he'd find me. And on missions where we had to stay overnight somewhere. It's why...it's why I don't like beds. The last time was...before the Helicarriers. They wiped my memory, longer than ever before, but Pierce told him to destroy my connection to Steve. He tried." Bucky looks down. "Didn't work, in the end."

There's a moment of silence. "Thank you for telling me," Dr. Zahir says gently. "I just-you said something I didn't understand. You said he made you feed to erase any evidence? What does that mean?"

Bucky freezes.  _Shit._ He looks at Dr. Zahir, assessing. Can he trust her? "You have...confidentiality, right?" he asks slowly.

She nods, frowning. "Of course."

"You won't say anything, no matter what it is?"

"Not unless you're going to hurt yourself or others."

Bucky takes a deep breath. "I'm...a vampire."

She blinks. "A..."

"Vampire."

She stares, then seems to collect herself. "You believe you're a vampire?"

Bucky sighs, tilting his head back. "Jarvis?"

"Yes, Sergeant Barnes?"

"Can you say something to-" He waves a hand. "Prove I'm a vampire?"

"Sergeant Barnes does share traits that fit with the colloquial definition of 'vampire,'" Jarvis says. "He metabolizes blood instead of food, and has enhanced strength, speed, and senses as well as dental adaptations."

"Fangs," Bucky interrupts. "He means fangs."

"Yes," Jarvis says primly. "But he is not dead, and does have a reflection, and is capable of being injured. Sergeant Barnes is capable of feeding on the blood of others, and seems to require between six and twelve ounces of blood a week, notwithstanding injuries. When injured, he is incapable of healing unless his blood levels are high for minor injuries or he is administered additional blood for severe injuries. When blood is administered, he is capable of healing even severe wounds within hours."

"Hence the scars," Bucky adds tiredly. "They didn't let them heal fast enough." He chances a glance over at Dr. Zahir. She's staring at him openmouthed, disbelief written in her features. Bucky winces. "Are you...okay?"

She blinks and collects herself. "I'm just...surprised. Very surprised. I mean..." She stares at him, then cocks her head. "But I guess aliens are real, and alien Gods, and...magic, in a sense. So I can believe it."

"You're not...scared?"

She raises an eyebrow. "Should I be? Nothing's changed, has it?"

He shakes his head. "No. I just...I mean, I'm not human."

She frowns. "Of course you are. You just have a different metabolism, right? That's what Jarvis said."

Bucky blinks. "I...guess."

"You're not dead, or immortal. You're literally still covered with sweat from working out, and when you grabbed me yesterday you felt no different from anyone else. You felt very human to me. You seem very human to me."

It's Bucky's turn to gape. "But..."

"How long have you been a vampire?" she questions. "How were you...turned?"

"Zola. He...experimented on me, during the war."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

He shakes his head. "It's fine. And that's why the Russians kept me. They weren't Hydra. But they found out what I was, and wanted to study me. They couldn't make more of me, so they froze me until Zola could come to make me into a weapon. They would give me blood through an IV once a week or whenever I was injured. The scars I have...they're only because they left them for a while. Starved me. They did...they did a lot more, but it healed quickly because they gave me blood. Only occasionally would Lukin feed me like normal, and Pierce did it only a couple times. Rumlow would make me feed right after so I healed, except for a couple times."

"So that's what the IV is for, in the tapes," Dr. Zahir says. "I wondered."

Bucky nods. "I don't need to eat or drink. I haven't, in seventy years. Though I did try some food at Sam's house, but I nearly died because it had garlic in it." He feels his lip twitch at the memory, funny now that he looks back on it.

"Wait, the garlic thing is true?"

Bucky wrinkles his nose. "Kind of? Sam says I'm allergic to it. He had to stab me with a needle. And silver. Silver burns." He looks down at his scarred wrist. "That's what they made the cuffs out of. They burned just touching them, and if I pulled on them.... And they had silver knives, and silver bullets."

Dr. Zahir grimaces. "I had no idea. Who else knows?"

"Steve, obviously. Sam. Tony. Natalia. And Hydra, at least the people who worked with me, and any of the Russians still alive. They kept it a secret."

"This certainly gives me a whole new perspective on everything," Dr. Zahir admits. "I'm glad you told me. And that you felt comfortable opening up to me about your assaults. This is something that we can keep working on during our sessions. I'd like this to be one of your trauma accounts."

Bucky swallows. "What does that mean?"

"It means I'll want you to write out exactly what happened, in detail, and then read it out loud to me. More than once."

He grimaces. "I'm not sure I can do that."

She fixes him with a look. "You need to, if you want to deal with it in a healthy way and not end up here again." 

He nods grudgingly. "Yeah. I know. I just..." He sighs, leaning his head back against the wall. "Hate it."

"That's perfectly okay. Hate it all you want. That's a valid emotion. Now, how are you feeling?"

Bucky thinks. "Better. Calmer. I still...everything I thought is still there, though."

"That's okay. It takes time to think about these things differently. I think it would be a good idea for you to talk with Steve, though. With me here."

Bucky nods slowly. The thought of seeing Steve is scary, but with Dr. Zahir here it's less so. "Yeah. I can do that."

"Okay, let's get him down here." She looks up. "Jarvis?"

"Captain Rogers will be down shortly," Jarvis replies.

Bucky blows out a breath, suddenly anxious. A thought pops into his head and he turns to Dr. Zahir. "Wait, what time is it?"

She looks at her watch. "Ten o'clock."

He blinks. "Shit. What about the trigger session?"

She raises an eyebrow. "We cancelled that after Steve called. You're not really in the best headspace."

"Oh." He swallows. "Right." He's glad. He doesn't think he can go through a trigger session today, after everything.

A twinge in his chest tells him Steve is approaching. The elevator doors open and Steve steps through, looking cautious as he makes his way over to them. 

"Sit down," Dr. Zahir says. 

Steve sits down across from them both, keeping distance between them as his gaze darts to Bucky. His eyes look red-rimmed, with dark smudges under them and his hair tousled and falling over his forehead in limp strands. He looks a little like Bucky feels.

Dr. Zahir leans forward. "Okay, so this is how it's going to go. Bucky is going to explain his side, and Steve will listen. Then Steve will explain his side, and Bucky will listen. No interrupting, no arguing. Understood?"

Both nod, and Bucky feels the urge to stand at attention for Dr. Zahir's authoritative tone. He really could imagine her being a drill sergeant.

"Go ahead, Bucky. Walk Steve through what happened. Oh, and Steve, I already know about you two, so don't worry."

Bucky takes a deep breath, wondering how to start. "Um," he says eloquently. "So I was down here, because I had a dream, and it bothered me. It was a-it was a good dream. About you." He looks up at Steve. "But it made me think about how I can't do that anymore, because of what happened, and...I was angry. So I came down here to punch things. And then you were there, and...I don't know. I was so...upset, and not really thinking straight, and I guess I wanted to...to prove I could. And, I mean, it was...okay? Like, I wasn't really okay, but it wasn't bad, I was just frustrated. But then you-you pinned me to the wall, and I panicked." He sees Steve's face crease with guilt. "It wasn't you, it was just..doing that. But it's like I couldn't control my body, I was just...going along with it and I couldn't stop. And then it got worse and I couldn't move, or speak, or do anything. And then you realized, and I couldn't-I still couldn't answer, I couldn't say anything, and you got angry, and then you left, and I thought you hated me. I had a panic attack and then dissociated. But I thought you hated me, that you thought I was broken." His voice is small and quiet, and he stares down at his knees to avoid looking at Steve.. "That you can't possibly want me because I'm damaged."

He can feel Steve's gaze on him, can picture the pained expression on his face, and wonders how he ever thought Steve was capable of hating him. He should, maybe, but he doesn't. He'd hate himself before he hated Bucky.

"Steve, your turn," Dr. Zahir says. "Just what happened."

Bucky hears his intake of breath. "Well," Steve says, and his voice sounds thick, "Jarvis told me you'd come down here and needed someone to go with you, so I followed. I could tell you were angry, by the way you were punching things, and I stepped up to...I don't know. Try to talk to you? But then you kinda ambushed me, and I was surprised, but I just figured it was something you needed so I let you. And you didn't seem okay, to me, but I asked you, multiple times, and you said you were. I figured it was like during the war, when we both needed to let our anger out that way. And then I guess I pinned you to the wall, and I didn't even think-I'm an idiot, I should've-anyway, so I checked in again to make sure I could keep going, but you didn't respond. And then I pulled back, and I could tell something was wrong. You looked terrified. And I realized...I realized you hadn't been okay the whole time, and I'd ignored it, and I thought that I must have made you scared, that you were scared of  _me,_ like before. That I was the one hurting you. And then I got mad, because I'd  _asked_ you and you said you were okay, but you weren't. And you made me into-into someone who hurt you like that. I mean, God, what if I kept going? So yeah, I was angry, but it was because I was scared and hurt. I was  _horrified_ that I'd hurt you, that you saw me that way. And I saw you panicking and I thought that I must be the one making you afraid, like last time, so I needed to leave to make you feel safe. I called Dr. Zahir to come talk to you because I knew you needed to talk to someone, but I'd only make it worse and Sam told me you're setting boundaries with him. So, no. I don't hate you, or think you're broken. I hate myself for doing that to you."

Bucky's head snaps up to meet Steve's gaze. "Don't say that. It wasn't your fault."

Steve hunches. "I could've...done something different. Realized sooner."

"Steve." Bucky's voice is firm. "Do you remember our conversation about this? The one that ended with you flying a plane into the Arctic? It. Wasn't. Your. Fault. Stop blaming yourself."

Steve grimaces. He looks...small, hunched over on the floor with his legs crossed and eyes red and puffy from crying. He looks fragile, like he might break at any second. He's hurting. Bucky had realized it before, when they'd had said conversation, but it sinks in now. Steve is hurting. 

"Steve," Bucky says softly. Steve looks up, meeting his eyes. "You're not okay either."

"I'm fine."

Bucky raises an eyebrow. "You wanna try that again?"

Steve shifts. "Compared to you-"

"It's not a competition, Stevie, Christ. If everyone was compared to me no one would have any right to feel bad. You wanna talk about trauma? Let's talk about yours." He holds up his metal hand, listing on his fingers. "Your whole goddamned childhood. War. I mean...the fucking war. The shit we saw." He holds up a third finger. "Watching me die. Flying a plane into the Arctic and letting yourself die. Waking up in the future with everyone you knew dead. Fighting fucking aliens." He's onto his right hand now. "Fighting me. Letting me smash your face in and shoot you. Almost dying again. Finding me and learning what they did to me. Having to leave because I was scared of you." He holds all ten fingers up. "Want me to keep going? Because I can."

Steve huffs. "Okay, okay, I get it. When did this become about me?"

"Since I realized that you're a goddamn idiot who won't take care of yourself. Two can play at this game, Rogers. If I have to talk about this shit then so do you." Bucky crosses his arms, staring down Steve. This is familiar.

Steve stares back only a minute before crumbling. "Fine. If I talk to someone, will you tell me when you feel like this?"

"Depends. Will you stop blaming yourself for every little thing and trying to take on the world?"

"I don't-" Bucky raises an eyebrow. Steve glares. "Fine."

"Fine."

They glare at each other a moment longer before breaking into smiles, Steve's eyes warm and adoring as he stares at Bucky. Bucky reaches out a hand and Steve takes it, squeezing. They're okay. They're going to be okay.

Bucky suddenly realizes Dr. Zahir is still sitting there, looking between them in bafflement. "That was...not how I thought that was going to go," she says. "But that was good. Both of you acknowledged the other's feelings. Bucky, do you still think Steve hates you?"

Bucky shakes his head.

"Okay, great. And Steve, do you still think it was your fault?"

Steve hesitates. "I guess...no."

"Wonderful. And Steve, you said you would be willing to talk to someone? About your trauma?"

Steve nods, glancing at Bucky. "Yeah."

"I can recommend someone, if you'd like."

"That would be great. Thank you."

Dr. Zahir nods. "Not a problem. I'm glad we got everything straightened out today. Communication is definitely something you both need to work on, especially if you're in a relationship. I thought you two were friends before, but this changes a lot. You have a lot of shared trauma and some very complicated history that's difficult to navigate. I need you both to be very careful, okay?"

They both nod.

"Okay. Bucky, do you think you'll be able to do a trigger session tomorrow morning?"

Bucky nods. "Yeah."

"And Steve? You're okay with it as well?"

Steve nods. 

"Then I'll see you both then." Dr. Zahir gets up, wincing as she stretches. Bucky feels similarly as he pushes himself to his feet, muscles protesting after sitting curled on the hard floor for hours. They show her to the elevator, letting her go down before taking the car up to their floor. Bucky heads straight for the bathroom, the dried sweat on his skin tacky and itchy and sweaty hair brushing his face irritatingly. He stops when he's almost there, turning to Steve.

"Bath?"

Steve smiles. 

 


	18. Chapter 18

Dinner that night is a group affair. Bucky meets Pepper Potts, and Tony, Natalia, Sam, Steve, and Bucky all gather around the table in their apartment and eat tacos, though Natalia and Bucky don't partake. Bucky sits on Steve's left, trading glances and rapid-fire Russian with Natalia across the table as Steve's ankle ends up hooked around Bucky's underneath, Sam on Steve's other side and Pepper and Tony next to Natalia across from them. Bucky doesn't talk much, except to Natalia and Steve, but he lets the light conversation wash over him, relaxing into the familiar camaraderie and letting his tangled thoughts swirl away. He still feels raw and fragile, but sitting here, with the skin of Steve's ankle warm against his and the smells of food in his nose, laughter echoing in his ears as Tony gesticulates wildly, he thinks maybe he can be okay.

When finally everyone bids them goodnight, Bucky is exhausted. He falls into the couch, barely staying awake long enough to murmur goodnight to Steve and Sam before sinking into sleep.

***

It is Natalia who sits with him during the trigger session the next morning. She settles on the couch next to the soldier, coaxing him to mirror her crosslegged position and face her. The soldier knows her, vaguely, a sense of familiarity and the imperative to protect. He lets Natalia hold his metal hand, tracing over the joints as she speaks softly in Russian about something-a mission maybe?-where she'd had to escape from an angry llama. There is no sense of seriousness to it, no danger, and the soldier finds his lips twitching as she tells the story, something still pricking at him about her.

_"I know you,"_ he says, as she pauses for breath.

Natalia smiles, but it's slightly sad.  _"Yes, Yasha, you know me. You knew me."_

He studies her, the lines of her face, the red of her hair.  _"You were...small."_

_"Yes. I was a child."_

He searches in the recesses of his mind, pain spiking through his head.  _"Little spider."_

She squeezes his metal hand.  _"Yasha."_

He tilts his head, frowning.

_"It is your name,"_ she says. 

_"I don't have a name."_

She folds both hands around his metal one, looking sad.  _"It is the one I gave you. Our secret, remember?"_

_"Our secret,"_ the soldier repeats slowly, distantly, the words pulled from memory. He makes a cross over his heart with his right hand.  _"Our secret, or they will correct us both."_

_"Not anymore. You can keep your name, Yasha."_

His head aches and spins. He shakes it, trying to dislodge the strange feeling.  _"You are...older,"_ he says.  _"When did that...where are we?"_ He looks around at the unfamiliar room, the strange couch where they're both curled.  _"This is not the Red Room."_

She shakes her head.  _"No. We are both free, Yasha."_

He stares at her in confusion.  _"I don't understand."_

_"They cannot hurt us anymore."_

His head pounds. Something tugs at him. He tries to find something, anything to latch onto to help him understand.  _"You are...safe?"_

_"Yes."_ She leans forward.  _"We are both safe now."_

He rubs at his head, still confused.  _"I think it is the end of the week."_

Natalia's face goes pained.  _"No. No, Yasha. No more wipes. Ever."_

He frowns.  _"But I am malfunctioning. I need to be fixed."_

Natalia starts to cry. The soldier blinks, startled. Natalia rarely cries. He reaches out, tilting her chin up and brushing her tears away gently, the motion familiar.

_"Why are you crying, little spider?"_

_"I"m sorry,"_ she chokes out, grabbing his hand and holding tight.  _"I was-I was a stupid little girl. I didn't know what they were doing to you. I should've realized. I never even questioned, all those years. I'm sorry, Yasha. I should've done something, I should've looked harder, I should've found you and set you free, I should've-"_

The soldier's head fills with flashes and sounds, an onslaught of memory that threatens to bury him. He clutches Natalia's hands harder, like a lifeline, awareness burning in his mind.

_"No. It is not your fault. You were a child."_

_"A stupid child."_

_"Natalia."_ She looks up at his sharp tone.  _"They would have hurt you too. And I couldn't let that happen."_

She searches his eyes. "James?"

Bucky blinks, taking a deep breath as the memories settle and awareness rushes back in, his head aching. "Yes. It's me, Natashenka."

***

"You're making great progress," Dr. Jones says. "You're breaking the trigger words faster and easier each time."

"I feel better each time," Bucky notes. "My head hurts less."

"Your brain is healing, and the words are losing their effect. Also, it seems Ms. Romanoff is a calming presence."

Bucky nods. "When I'm like that, I still won't hurt her, because I knew her when I was under the trigger words."

"I think she is the best person to help you break them for now. As you get better, eventually we can have Captain Rogers return and try breaking them aggressively like the first time."

He nods. "Thank you, for all of this."

"You're very welcome. It's been my pleasure to be of assistance, Sergeant Barnes."

Bucky blinks. "Your name. Jones. You're not-are you by any chance related to Gabe Jones?"

She smiles. "Yes. He's my great-uncle."

Bucky stares. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"I wasn't sure if I should. I didn't want to say anything unless you asked."

"Well I'm askin'." He smiles. "Did you know him well?"

She nods. "Fairly well. And yes, he did tell me about you."

"All bad things, I'm sure."

She laughs. "Not in the slightest. But tell me, did you really shoot a can off Dugan's head once?"

Bucky smiles at the memory. "I sure did. But listen, there's a whole story behind it." He leans on the wall, the images coming clear as day. "So, we were in the middle of France..."

***

"You and Natasha. It looks like there's a lot of history there," Dr. Zahir comments.

Bucky nods, chewing his lip. "I trained her. I first met her when she was ten, and we trained for a few months. Then they put me on ice. Every time they'd wake me up for a mission I'd get a little time to train with her again. Usually a week, or a few days. When she was eighteen, she graduated. But she didn't want to. She tried to fail. And I-I stepped in to protect her. They realized that we'd become attached, so they took me away from the Red Room and wiped it all. Everything. Eight years just gone. I didn't remember her. Years later I shot her, on a mission, and then again in DC. Now here we are."

"You seem very protective of her."

"Yes. Even when I was...not myself, when I was brainwashed, I still tried to protect her. They left us alone, to train, so we could do and say things without worrying about them overhearing. She gave me a name, but I said it had to be our secret. I knew what would happen if they found out. And even though...even though I was loyal to Hydra, even though I thought I wasn't human or pain didn't matter....somehow, deep down, I knew it was wrong, and I protected her from that. I told her it wasn't okay when she got hurt, and I-I comforted her, and encouraged her. I had a little sister, before, and I've always been good with kids. I guess Hydra couldn't quite erase that. She loved me, the way a child loves a parent, or maybe a sister loves a brother, and I think-I think if I was capable of feeling love then I would have loved her too. I did, I think, I just didn't know it. She made me...human."

"A spark of light in a dark time," Dr. Zahir says solemnly. "You needed each other, it seems."

He nods, looking down. "Yeah."

***

"Sit down Barnes, I'm about to blow your mind."

Bucky raises an eyebrow but sits down facing the tv, taking the strange device Sam hands him. "What is this?"

"You know what video games are?"

Bucky squints. "I think so."

"Ever heard of Mario Kart?"

Steve groans from next to Bucky. "Oh no."

Sam grins. "Oh yes."

Sam ends up crushing both of them, even though Bucky has significantly improved by the end. Then Natalia joins them, and crushes them all. Afterwards, Bucky sits on the floor with his back to the couch as Steve sits above him, gently massaging his still-aching head, Natalia and Sam sprawled around them. Bucky lets himself relax fully, feeling safe and warm and, just maybe, happy.

***

Dinner is him, Steve, Sam, and Natalia. He and Natalia do not eat, of course, but Bucky enjoys sitting and listening to the conversation. Steve tells him that Dr. Zahir recommended him a psychologist, and Bucky feels relief settle in his chest. Steve will be okay.

Sam says Tony is completely finished with his wings, and that he wants to test them out soon. Bucky even jokes that he promises not to tear them off this time, and Sam laughs. Bucky likes their new friendship. He can't believe Sam actually wants to be his friend, but he's glad he is. And that he's Steve's friend too. Steve needs friends other than Bucky. Normal friends. Heaven knows Bucky isn't normal by any means. He's barely even a person. He's broken. The thought sobers him, but he maintains his facade and smiles and laughs along with the others, though he feels Natalia watching him with assessing eyes.

***

That night Bucky sits down at the desk in his bedroom, finally gathering the courage to write his impact statement. He picks up the pencil, hovering over the page as he takes a deep breath, and then begins to write.

***

There is no trigger reduction session today, his schedule cleared for his CPT session with Dr. Zahir. He sits on the couch, the papers in his hands slightly crumpled from worrying them, anxiety swimming in his gut. The words on the pages are scribbled and crossed out, a few holes in the paper from where he'd pressed too hard in anger, the writing alternating between neat cursive and angry, messy letters with a few lines of Cyrillic scratched out.

"Go ahead," Dr. Zahir says gently. "I'm just going to listen, and write down some notes as you go. Don't pay attention to me. Make sure you connect to your words and let yourself feel anything you need to."

Bucky takes a deep breath and begins. 

"Why do I think this happened? Well, I think this whole thing happened because people are cruel and weak. Because I happened to end up in Zola's lab, and for some reason his experiments worked. He was evil, all of the Nazis were evil, and he only cared about advancing his agenda, of playing God and creating something new. And I don't know why I got turned and no one else did. Maybe it was something about me, or maybe it was just luck. But as soon as Steve pulled my off that table my fate was sealed. It was too late. He'd already turned me into a monster long before I became the Winter Soldier. And I turned down the honorable discharge, because I couldn't leave Steve. Maybe that was my first mistake, I don't know. I certainly hadn't signed up for the war. Enlisted, all the history books say. I didn't fucking enlist. I was drafted. I didn't have a choice. But I did have a choice to go home, or to stay and protect Steve, and that was no choice at all. I chose Steve. Over and over, I always chose Steve. And when they captured me again, when they set that trap so they could study and torture me, I thought that was it. But Steve pulled me off that table again, and I turned down another goddamn honorable discharge. So that was my second mistake, only it wasn't a mistake at all. I kept following Steve, protecting him, and I told him, I remember what I said, I said, 'you're gonna be the death of me.' And I guess I was right. But Zola was the reason I fell. He set another trap on that train, and I walked right into it. Then I fell, and I thought I was going to be rescued. The Russians came and I thought, 'I've been rescued, I can go home.' And I was gonna go home. I wouldn't have turned down another discharge. I remember thinking how much I wanted to go home, how it sucked that I lost my arm but that I'd finally keep my promise to Becca. I was happy. But people are cruel. The Russians found out what I was, and so they kept me. They told Steve I was dead. They could've given me to him, they were the fucking search team for me and they could've sent me home, but because of what Zola had did, because they only cared about advancing their own agenda, they didn't let me go. And at first they only wanted to study me. I thought, maybe I'll answer their questions, I'll give in, but at least then they'll let me die, and I won't betray my country. But they couldn't make more. Again, I don't know why. Luck, or was it something about me? And that was when they decided to use me. That was when they reached out to Zola, who started this whole mess. It's him who started all of this. He's the one who sealed my fate. And so they gave me a new arm and wiped my memories and brainwashed me and tortured me, and I gave in. I fought, at first, but then I gave in. I broke. They broke me. I stopped questioning. I followed orders, bad orders, just like the fucking Nazis I used to fight against. I killed people, innocent people, because I was too goddamn weak to fight back. Because I was scared that they'd hurt me. That's-that's despicable. If I'd been stronger, maybe people wouldn't be dead. If I'd put a gun to my head the first chance I got and pulled the trigger, maybe none of this would've happened. If I'd died in that ravine, none of this would've happened. So many people would be alive. And the Russians, and Hydra, they all made me hurt people, and they hurt me, because they wanted power. Because it served their agenda. And the Americans, and Rumlow, they hurt me simply because they could. Rumlow hurt me because it made him powerful, because he was cruel. And I let it happen. I could have gotten free, or killed him. There was nothing stopping me. I even-I even went along with it, not just letting it happen. He told me to do something and I did it. Hydra told me to do something, and I did it. I didn't even question. I _helped_ them. Willingly. I thought I was doing good. Everything, everything that happened was because people are horrible and cruel, and because I was too weak."

Bucky pauses to take deep breaths, papers shaking in his hand.

"The effects of this on my beliefs? 

"Safety: I am not safe. I don't feel safe, ever, and I'm not safe to other people. Every time someone moves, I flinch. I live in a constant state of terror. I wake up screaming. I always think that Hydra's going to find me again, that all of this is just temporary, like a dream. Like I'll wake up and I'll be back there, and they'll take everything from me again. I know it. They're never going to let me go. Nowhere is safe. And I'm dangerous to other people. When I got triggered, I hurt Steve, and Sam, and Natalia, and Tony, and then you. I could've killed them. I'm a weapon, and I'm too dangerous to let live. Even without the trigger words, what if I have a nightmare and lash out, or dissociate and try to kill someone? What if I accidentally hurt someone? I'm not safe. The world isn't safe. No one is ever safe. The world is an unsafe place, full of horrible people who do horrible things. I fought in the war. I remember the senseless death, the camps, everything. It's all death and violence and cruelty, and there's no escaping it. 

"Trust: I don't trust anyone besides Steve, and maybe Sam and Natalia. I know what people are like. I've seen the worst of what people can do, and I know not to trust anyone. But I still do, for some reason. I trust too easily. I still want to think people are good, even though I know they're not. That's what makes me weak. Hydra took advantage of that, because I was so desperate to think I was doing good, that they were good people. I trusted them. I trusted them and it was wrong. I was wrong. And now I can't let myself trust anyone again, because what if it's wrong? Everyone tells me the same things here that Hydra told me. That Hydra is bad, and they are good, and they're trying to help me. But how do I know the difference? How do I know who is actually good, and who is actually bad? How do I even know who I am? I can't trust myself, that's for sure. I can't trust my own mind. I have no idea who I actually am. The Russians told me I was an operative who they created, that I was a machine, and said they were helping me by wiping my memories and torturing me. They said they were fixing me. Hydra said the same things. Pierce told me I was doing good, that I had to do my part, that after that last mission he'd let me rest. And then Steve told me I was someone else, that I was Bucky, and that he wanted to help me, to fix me. But how do I know that's real? How do I trust that I'm really who he says I am? How do I know whether Hydra was right, or Steve was right? Sometimes I think maybe I'm not Bucky, that this was all just an elaborate joke. How do I trust my own memories when I know Hydra can mind-control me? Can wipe them? If they can take them away, surely they can implant them. So I can't trust myself, and I can't trust others, and I can't trust the world. I know if anyone found out what I was, anyone, they'd want to study me or control me. There's not a person in the world who wouldn't, besides maybe Steve. And he still wants to fix me, to make me better, whatever the hell that means. I can't trust him with everything. I can't trust anyone.

"Power/control: I don't feel like I have any control. Literally, my mind can be controlled with a few words. My mind isn't my own, and my body isn't my own. I'm powerless. Hydra made it so I didn't even have wants, or make choices, or have any control over anything, and I still feel that way sometimes. Everyone here says I can make choices, but I don't actually have any choice at all. I didn't want to go to Sam and Steve in the first place. I only went to them because I was bleeding out. And then they took me to the tower, and I didn't protest because I didn't think I could, and then once I was myself again it was too late. And then everything happened with the CIA, and I just went along with it, because what else was I supposed to do? Everything just seems to happen, and I go along with it, but I don't feel in control. Sometimes I just wish everything would stop, but it won't, and I have to just keep going, but it's like my body is moving without me telling it to, and I do or say things that I don't really want, and I don't feel like myself. I feel disconnected from everything, like I'm in a a dream, only I can't wake up, and I can't control anything. My whole life feels like I didn't have control. I didn't choose to join the Army, to go to war, I didn't choose to be captured and turned into this, I didn't choose to fall and be found by Russians and then turned into a weapon by Hydra, I didn't choose any of this. Every single fucking thing was out of my control, including my own mind and body. I can't control myself, I can't control others, I certainly can't control the world. I feel helpless every single minute of every single day. 

"Esteem: I don't even know what that means anymore. I mean, how can you have esteem when you don't even know if you're a person? I don't have a sense of self. I know I'm Bucky, and I know I'm a person, logically, but it doesn't quite feel real. I didn't have a self under Hydra. I only existed to follow orders. I didn't have wants, or feelings, or anything. I wasn't a person. And now...I have those, I'm a person, but I can still remember being like that. Sometimes someone asks me something, and I almost recite the answer, that I don't have wants, before I realize that I do. It's just so ingrained. They broke me down until I was nothing, and now it feels like I'm trying to make myself again out of all these broken pieces. Nothing fits together right anymore. I don't feel right. Everything feels wrong, like I'm not quite real, or my body isn't quite mine, or I'm looking at the world through a smudged lens, like I went to sleep and when I woke up everything was shifted an inch to the right but no one else noticed. And after everything that I've done, I have the opposite of esteem. I hate myself. If I could take back all the people I killed, if I could trade my life for theirs, I would. In a heartbeat. I don't think I deserve to live. I think I'm a bad person, I think I'm weak and selfish and monstrous. I am a monster, literally. I'm not human. Maybe I was turned because I already had darkness inside of me. I think people have a right to hate me, I think they should hate me. I think the whole world should hate me. I think Steve should hate me, but for some reason he doesn't, and it kills me. 

"Intimacy: That's not something I can do, at all. I can't even be touched without freaking out. I can barely hold Steve's hand. I can't tell him about things, about what they did to me. Sometimes I can't even look him in the eye. I certainly can't do sex again, after what Rumlow did. He took that away from me. I can't give Steve what he needs, and I'm not the person he remembers. I can't be that again, no matter how hard I try. I'm broken. Damaged. You can't have intimacy without a sense of self, without trust, and I don't have either. I can't let myself close to anyone, physically or emotionally, both because I don't want them to see the darkest parts of me and because I expect them to hurt me. And I had-I had intimacy with Hydra, and that's the worst part. Sometimes I still think that Pierce was nice sometimes, and I liked the techs. They were good. They always took care of me, and they didn't like it when I was hurt. They were the closest thing I had to family, I think. And Pierce was nice. He told me I did a good job, and he could be patient and kind, even when I asked him questions. He told me he was the good guy, and he didn't want to hurt me, but he had to make sure I did my part, and I believed him. I trusted him, and I wanted to make him happy, to do a good job. So I had...intimacy with him, in a way. He even let me sleep in his bed, once, and fed me. So in some ways, I had more intimacy with Hydra than I do with anyone now. Everything was simple then, but now it's all confusing. Back then I could let anyone touch me, and I didn't care. I didn't flinch, or have a panic attack. Now even the thought of being touched makes me anxious. Sometimes I wish I could be like before, cold and logical and uncaring, if only so I didn't have to deal with all this."

He finishes, taking shaky breaths as he swallows down the lump in his throat, the tips of his fingers feeling numb and everything distant and hazy. He stares down at his lap, fingers loosening on the crumpled pages still in his hand as he sets them to the side.

"Thank you for sharing that with me," Dr. Zahir says. "That was a lot of feelings, and that's good. I really appreciate you taking the time to do this assignment thoroughly. This gives us a lot to work with. Let's go over some of the issues I heard that we can work on." She looks down at her clipboard, where she's been writing notes as he read. "The first big one I heard was that you blame yourself for what happened. You said everything happened because you were weak."

Bucky shrugs, looking down. "Yeah."

"Do you remember when we talked about stuck points? That's something to add to that list." Dr. Zahir takes the folder off the table, sliding out the list and passing it and a pen over to Bucky. "Write down, 'this happened because I was weak.'"

Bucky grudgingly writes it down. 

_This happened because I was weak_

"Sometimes it's easier when you look back to see how you could have done things differently, or to think it must have happened because you were weak. Things always seem simpler in hindsight. Is there a chance that you're trying to alter things to fit your beliefs?"

Bucky presses his lips together. "I don't know. But I know I should've fought back. I could've."

"You did fight back though, right? At first, and occasionally whenever you'd remember something."

Bucky nods slowly. "Yes, but..."

"But every time you did, they either wiped your memory or tortured you, or a combination. Why is it your fault then?"

"Because...I gave in."

"To the torture?"

"Yes."

"Giving into torture is not shameful. No one can resist prolonged torture. Everyone will break eventually. You held out much longer than most."

Bucky sighs. "But...but I did things, I...I killed people, and they didn't have to torture me each time. I never questioned."

"They wiped your memories and then brainwashed you into thinking you were doing good, with the threat of torture if you questioned or didn't follow orders. How could you have acted any differently?"

Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. "I don't know," he says in frustration. "But I...I could've done something."

"Done what?" she presses.

"Fought back."

"But didn't we establish that you did, and they took measures to prevent you doing it again?"

Bucky drops his hands, feeling tired and resigned. "I just...I don't know. I could've done something different. Anything."

Dr. Zahir studies him for a moment and then nods. "We'll come back to this. Let's identify some other stuck points." She looks at her clipboard. "Safety. You expressed beliefs that you aren't safe, nowhere is safe, you are dangerous to others, other people aren't safe, and the world isn't safe. I want you to write all of those down."

Bucky picks up the pen again and writes on five lines:

_I am not safe_

_Nowhere is safe_

_I am dangerous to others_

_Other people aren't safe_

_The world isn't safe_

He looks up. Dr. Zahir nods. "Let's start with you not feeling safe. You have a fear of Hydra getting you again. Now, for you, that's actually a fairly reasonable fear, though I think it can be mitigated. I know that this Tower is the safest place for you right now. No one is getting in."

Bucky nods. "But...I have to leave eventually, for the trial. They could get me there."

"It's understandable to be afraid of that, but don't let it paralyze you. You can't live your life afraid of what might happen. Every precaution is being taken, and Hydra is pretty much gone from what I've heard. The Avengers have taken them down."

"You sound like Steve," Bucky mumbles. "He gave me the speech about not living life in fear of what might happen, and that I can't give up. It was very patriotic."

Dr. Zahir chuckles. "Well, he's not wrong. But I understand that a little paranoia is probably a good thing right now, considering what happened with the CIA. For now, I want to establish some safe spaces and safe people for you. Right here, is this a safe place for you?"

Bucky nods. "Yeah. It helps when I'm feeling anxious."

"That's good. What about people? Who are people you feel safe around?"

"Steve, Sam, Natalia." Bucky pauses. "Tony, actually. I go to his workshop sometimes if I have a nightmare."

"That's great. And that's another safe place for you. For now, let's just start there. Build up your list of safe places and people gradually. Next, you said you think you are dangerous to others?"

"I mean, yeah." Bucky raises an eyebrow at her. "I literally had you in a chokehold a few days ago."

"And at no time did I fear for my life, or think you were going to hurt me in any way."

"What about the first time I got triggered? I hurt everyone. I sent agents to the hospital."

Dr. Zahir sighs, leaning forward. "Again, this is difficult. You have the capacity to be dangerous, but that doesn't mean you're dangerous all the time. Right now, you could hurt me. Why don't you?"

Bucky stares. "Because I don't want to. Why the hell would I hurt you?"

Dr. Zahir points a finger at him. "Exactly." Bucky blinks. "You're in control, right now. You're not hurting me. You're not dangerous."

"But...what about the other times?"

"When you're not in control?"

"Yeah."

"Isn't that what the trigger reduction sessions are for? To eliminate those times?"

Bucky turns this over in his mind. "I...guess. But I'm still dangerous." He holds up his metal hand. "My arm is literally a weapon, and I'm not human. I could kill ten people in under a minute."

"But you won't. For the same reason that Steve won't, even though I'm sure he could."

Bucky sighs. "Steve said the same thing to me."

Dr. Zahir smirks slightly. "He's smart. Listen, right now, you are in control. And when you're in control, you're not dangerous. You said, 'I'm too dangerous to let live.' That's the kind of thinking that led to you attempting suicide."

Bucky traces the faint scar on his wrist. "I know. I just...I don't want to hurt anyone," he says quietly. "Ever again. I hate hurting people."

"Then don't." Dr. Zahir smiles to soften her words. "We'll make sure you stay in control, that the triggers are gone, and all you have to do is simply...not hurt anyone. It's up to you." She hesitates. "And if you do, accidentally, you apologize, you forgive yourself, and you move on. Just because you do something wrong doesn't mean you don't deserve to live. But you're in control now."

Bucky nods slowly. It seems so simple. Just...don't hurt anyone. He can  _choose_ not to. No one will make him. No one can control him. 

He looks up. "Okay."

*

They finish up safety, talking about the overgeneralization that the whole world is unsafe, which Bucky grudgingly accepts, and then move to the next stuck points in trust. Bucky writes them down, his list growing.

_I can't trust anyone_

_Trusting others makes me weak_

_I can't trust myself_

"You asked a lot of very difficult questions in this section," Dr. Zahir notes. "Such as how you know who is right and who is wrong, and what is real. It's understandable to feel this way. You were brainwashed into thinking something was right, only to learn it was wrong, and that's something that can really shake your confidence in yourself. We see it in people who were part of cults. Part of them thinks, 'how could I ever have believed that?' while another part wonders if that was real and right now is fake. But the big takeaway is that you _are_ asking these questions. Could you imagine asking these questions under Hydra?"

Bucky shakes his head. "No. Definitely not."

"The fact that you can question and you can reason provide evidence that this is right. You have access to all the information, and you can make a decision accordingly. Before, you were cut off from information, had your mind and memories tampered with, and were coerced into doing things. Those are not the actions of people who are in the right. If what they were doing was right, why would they have to do all that to get you to follow them?"

Bucky blinks. "I guess. I mean, I know they were wrong, I do. It's just, sometimes..." He tries to find the right words. "Sometimes I feel like they fucked with my head so much that I wouldn't even know if something was wrong. Like, I'm pretty sure this is right, but how do I know for  _certain?_ Maybe they found a new way to fuck with my mind, and this is some sort of dream. Maybe I'm actually killing people right now, only I don't know it. Whenever I get triggered, it's like..it's like I'm a different person, like everything here vanishes and I'm right back where I was, and I have no idea. I have no idea that Steve just triggered me, or that I'm in the Tower, or anything that happened. What if I just have no idea what's really going on? What if-what if I don't have all my memories, and I'm forgetting something important, or-or what if all my memories are implanted, and they're not real, what if Steve isn't real, what if this is all a dream, what if-what if I'm still back there and I never-I never escaped, I'm still there, how do I-how do I  _know-"_

He cuts off, taking gulps of air and trying to push down the surge of panic.

"This must be very scary," Dr. Zahir says gently. "Having your mind tampered with is one of the most horrifying violations I can think of. You're not sure if you can ever trust it again. Unfortunately, none of us know that. We could all be in a simulation, who knows?"

Bucky huffs a jagged laugh and Dr. Zahir smiles.

"The point is, it's impossible to know for sure, and you can only do what feels right given the information you have. Right now, does Hydra feel right?"

Bucky shakes his head vehemently. "No."

"Then that's what you must go on. You must trust that you're able to question, you're allowed to have access to any information you want, and no one is hurting you or trying to make you do anything you don't want to. That must be enough. It's not weakness to trust, Bucky. It's strength. The fact that you've been through so much, and been betrayed and hurt by so many people, and yet still see goodness in people is incredible. Yes, Hydra used that, but would you want it any other way? Hydra only convinced you to follow orders by telling you that you were doing good. You have such a drive to do good, to protect people, and they took advantage of it. But that doesn't mean you should stop wanting to do good, or protect people, does it?"

Bucky shakes his head.

"Then it also means it's okay to trust people. To trust yourself. It's always a risk, but it's worth it. You know the difference between being under the trigger words and being yourself. Trust that you actually  _are_ yourself. That this is real. Trust what your heart and your head tell you."

Bucky nods, wiping away a tear that slips from his eye and taking a shaky breath. "Okay," he croaks.

*

Control is not as bad, surprisingly. Bucky writes down only one new thing.

_I don't have any control_

They discuss ways to make him feel more in control. The trigger reduction, for one. Making small choices throughout the day. Practicing grounding to reconnect to his body. Then it's on to esteem. 

_I don't deserve to live,_ Bucky writes.

_I am a monster_

_I am a bad person because of what I did_

_People should hate me because of what I did_

"Why don't you deserve to live?" Dr. Zahir asks.

"Because of what I did," Bucky replies. "I killed people. And because I'm still dangerous."

"Haven't we established that you're not dangerous?"

"I guess."

"And why do the things you did unwillingly mean you don't deserve to live?"

He opens and closes his mouth helplessly. "Because...they were..bad. I deserve to be punished. The people who I killed, their families, they deserve justice."

Dr. Zahir points a finger. "Write that down. 'I deserve to be punished.'"

Bucky writes it down.

_I deserve to be punished_

"Don't you deserve justice? You were just as much a victim as the people Hydra made you kill."

Bucky shakes his head.  _Victim._ "No. No, I'm not-I'm not a victim. I killed them. I'm a murderer."

"But you didn't have a choice, did you? You didn't  _want_ to kill them."

"Well, no-"

"Hydra captured and imprisoned you, and then systematically tortured, mind controlled, and brainwashed you. How are you not a victim? Or, if you don't like the term victim, a survivor?"

"I..." Bucky swallows. "But I....I deserved it," he whispers.

"You deserved what?" Dr. Zahir's voice is gentle.

He swallows again, tears pricking at his eyes. "Everything. It was-it was my own...fucking fault, I didn't fight back, and I-I killed people, and I deserved it, I deserved everything they did to me-" He digs his metal fingers into his thigh, choking on a sob. There's too much, too much pain, too many memories, and they overwhelm him. If he didn't deserve it, if it was all for nothing...he can't deal with that. There needs to be a reason.

Dr. Zahir is silent a moment, letting him collect himself. "Write that down. 'I deserved everything they did to me.'"

Bucky picks up the pencil and writes it in shaky letters.

_I deserved everything they did to me_

"Bucky," Dr. Zahir says softly. "Do you really believe you deserved to be tortured?"

Bucky clenches his jaw, feeling his chin tremble as he looks down at his lap, fingers digging into his thigh. He blinks away tears.  _Remember you deserve this,_ Lukin's voice echoes in his ears. Pierce's hand tugs on his hair. _I'm the good guy here. Don't make me have to hurt you to ensure you do your part._ "It wasn't-it wasn't torture," he chokes out deperately. "It was...corrections. I deserved them. They didn't-they didn't want to hurt me, they had to, I made them, it was-it was my fault, if I hadn't-if I hadn't questioned, or disobeyed they wouldn't have hurt me, I did it to myself, and I-I deserved it, because I was killing people, but they didn't-they didn't w _ant_ to hurt me, most of them, they were good, they treated me better than I deserved, I'm not-I'm not even human, so it's not-it wasn't wrong, and I let them, I let them hurt me, it was my fault, I deserved it, I had to, I can't- _I deserved it-_ "

He's crying in hitching breaths, panic building and building as the world grows dimmer, blackness creeping on the edges of his vision as he wheezes for breath.

"-ucky, Bucky I need you to stay present. Don't avoid what you're feeling by dissociating. Focus on me."

Bucky's gaze snaps to Dr. Zahir, her form blurred in his vision as he struggles to breathe. 

"Deep breaths. With me. In...out....." Bucky tries to match her breathing, shuddering with choked-off sobs. "In....out...."

She repeats it until he's breathing more evenly, mind still numb with panic and thoughts scattered. He doesn't know where it came from, why he said what he did. It's been simmering under the surface but now it overwhelms him, crushing him. He's been trying so hard to believe Hydra is bad, to agree with everyone that he's been tortured, but it's  _wrong._ They were good, some of them. Lukin only hurt him to ensure he would comply, not because he wanted to. He only hurt him when he deserved it. He made sure the soldier knew that. Pierce did the same. He only hurt him to make sure he did his part, and he believed in what he was doing. He wanted to make the world a better place. He was good to the soldier. Bucky remembers the gentle hand cupping his cheek as Pierce fed him, the soft bed he was allowed to sleep in, how Pierce smiled benevolently and said  _good job._ Maybe Hydra was wrong, but they were still good. They treated him well. They believed they were doing the right thing. He remembers how the techs apologized- _I'm sorry, but this is necessary._ They didn't enjoy seeing him hurt, but they knew it was necessary, that it was the only way. He is a weapon, he is a vampire. He is not human, and he doesn't deserve to be treated like one. He deserved everything they did to him. And Rumlow...he deserved that, too. His body wasn't his own, and he didn't fight back. He let Rumlow do that to him. It wasn't rape because he never said no. He has no right to be upset about it. There was a reason for the pain. 

He feels calmer, settling into blankness. Everything was justified. He is not traumatized. He is not a victim. What happened to him was simply logical, from Hydra's viewpoint. He was a weapon, and when he didn't function correctly he was fixed. That is all. He breathes deeply, feeling a weight lift. Everything feels numb and distant. His head aches.

"Bucky? Are you still with me?"

He looks up at Dr. Zahir, meeting her eyes evenly. "Yes."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky is deeply traumatized and isn't thinking straight, and definitely has some form of Stockholm Syndrome which starts to manifest as he goes through therapy and sorts through everything. When confronted with too much trauma, he reverts to justifying everything that happened because actually dealing with it and accepting what happened to him is too much to handle. This is a relapse, but it's not permanent! Recovery is never linear. Sorry for the pain. As always, let me know if you need me to add any warnings. Stay safe!


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for attempted suicide

Dr. Zahir studies him with concern. "You seem very calm," she notes. "I want to warn you about not feeling your feelings. It will only make it worse in the long run."

Bucky blinks. "I'm fine."

Dr. Zahir raises an eyebrow. "You just said you deserved to be tortured, and then had a panic attack. Somehow I don't think that qualifies as fine." She leans forward. "Let's talk about this. You said a lot of things. One was that it wasn't torture, but corrections. That's something you said when triggered. Bucky, I need you to understand this. Whatever you call it, it was still torture. They inflicted pain on you either for punishment, to get you to do something, or for their own pleasure. That's the definition of torture. You can look it up in the dictionary, if you'd like. That's exactly what it will say."

Bucky presses his lips together.  _No._ He wasn't tortured. He  _wasn't._

"Another thing you said is that it was your fault that you were tortured. That you made them do it. Bucky, no one  _made_ them torture you. That was a conscious decision they made. They probably would still have hurt you even if you hadn't questioned them or disobeyed orders. They did, in fact. You told me there was no purpose to Rumlow assaulting you, multiple times. But you said they didn't want to hurt you. That is...to put it lightly, bullshit. Of course they wanted to hurt you, otherwise they wouldn't have."

"They didn't," Bucky says flatly. "They didn't want to. It was necessary."

Dr. Zahir sighs. "Necessary why?"

"To make me comply."

"That doesn't make it right," she points out.

"It was necessary," Bucky repeats. "I deserved it."

"Why did you deserve it?"

"Because I questioned. Because I disobeyed. Because I let them."

Dr. Zahir frowns worriedly. "Bucky, you told me before that you wish you had fought back more. Are you saying you should have fought back  _less?"_

Bucky shifts. "I..." He pauses, eyes darting to the side. "I...deserved it. I let them. They were...doing what they thought was right."

Dr. Zahir's expression goes serious. "Bucky, you said the words, 'they were good.' Do you think Hydra was good?"

Bucky clenches his jaw. "Yes. They were...wrong, but they were good."

Dr. Zahir takes a deep breath. "Okay. Can you tell me why you think that?"

"They...thought they were doing good. I was just a weapon. They didn't want to hurt me, but corrections were necessary to ensure I did my part. They treated me well. They were nice."

"Bucky..." Dr. Zahir swallows. "Hydra wanted to take over the world. They tortured and brainwashed you into killing people for them. Whatever small kindnesses they gave you were only to manipulate you into doing what they wanted. Kindness can be just as effective a tool as fear."

Bucky stares ahead calmly. "That's what the techs said. They were nice. They didn't like when the others hurt me."

"You said, in your impact statement, that the techs were almost like family. You said you were very intimate with Hydra. You said-" Dr. Zahir grimaces. "You said that Pierce let you sleep in his bed? That he was nice sometimes?"

"Yes."

"Bucky, sometimes-sometimes when all you know is pain and fear, any small amount of kindness feels extraordinary, even if it's from the person who hurt you. This is a technique many abusers use. They make themselves seem like the good guy, and anytime they hurt you they twist it to make it seem like your fault. Then, when they show even a modicum of kindness, they use that to further assert themselves as the good guy and invalidate your feelings. This is manipulation, Bucky. Pierce was a very evil man. He hurt you to get you to do what he wanted, and deliberately made himself seem like the good guy in all of it so you wouldn't hate him and turn against him. On a very serious level, this is called Stockholm Syndrome. You were stripped of your sense of self, tortured, and brainwashed, and in that confusion and pain you latched onto the few shreds of kindness you received. It was the only way you could survive, the only way you could make sense of your trauma. But I need you to understand this now. I need you to see that this was manipulation, and that what Hydra did to you was wrong. You did not deserve this. No one deserves this." Dr. Zahir is looking at him almost pleadingly.

Bucky presses his lips together and shakes his head emphatically. "No. No." He digs his metal fingers into his thigh. " _No._ "

"I know this is hard to hear. Attachments formed under these conditions can be very strong. But before you seemed to hate Hydra, and thought they were all bad people. What changed?"

"I was...wrong."

"And what led you to that conclusion?"

He shifts. "I...don't know. I...thought about it."

"You thought about it, in the space of a panic attack, and came to this conclusion?"

"Yes."

Dr. Zahir purses her lips. "Now, to me, that sounds a lot like avoiding your feelings. You had a panic attack, and then you were completely calm afterwards. I thought you didn't dissociate, but I think I was wrong. I think you're dissociating right now. You're not in contact with reality, and you're separated from your feelings."

Bucky blinks. "I'm fine."

"Yes, see that's exactly what worries me. You shouldn't be fine."

It's Bucky's turn to question. "Why?"

Dr. Zahir looks slightly surprised. "Why shouldn't you be fine? Because you're dealing with serious trauma, and you just had a panic attack about thinking you deserved to be tortured. There's no realm of 'fine' in there."

Bucky frowns. "I don't have trauma."

"You don't..." Dr. Zahir folds her hands, taking a breath. "You don't have trauma?"

"No."

"So what do you call the torture and brainwashing and mind control then?"

"Necessary measures."

"And you believe you...deserved them?" Dr. Zahir asks slowly.

Bucky nods. "Yes."

She appears to think. "Okay, so what would happen if you didn't deserve them? If they really were trauma?"

"They're not."

She raises her hands. "Just humor me. Hypothetically, what would happen if you went through serious trauma, and you didn't deserve it?"

He digs his fingers into his leg. "I...." He swallows, feeling something flutter in his chest, a panicked feeling pushing through the numbness. "I..." He shakes his head, suddenly struggling to breathe. "I can't, no, I-I deserved it, I had to, I-I can't-I can't-" He shakes his head again, fingers bruising his leg. "No, I-" He takes a shuddering breath and draws the blankness over himself again, eyes glazing over as he stares ahead and breaths slowing as his fingers relax on his leg. He blinks exactly once.

"Bucky?" His eyes snap to Dr. Zahir's. She looks slightly sad. "You're dissociating again." She leans forward and rests her elbows on her legs. "I think that accepting that you went through very serious trauma, and that you didn't deserve it, feels like too much to handle right now. Justifying it makes it seem less real. If it was necessary, and Hydra was good, then it seems less scary. It's understandable to want to protect yourself this way, but it's only going to make it worse. You need to deal with this, Bucky. You can't avoid it."

Bucky stays silent, eyes dropping to his lap. There's nothing to deal with. He is fine.  _He is fine._

Dr. Zahir sighs. "Okay, we're not going to get anywhere in your dissociative state. I'm going to leave you here, in your safe place, and send in Steve and Sam to watch over you." She looks up. "Jarvis, please send for them." She looks back down at Bucky. "Whenever you come out of this I want them to call me in so I can talk to you. I'm not going far, but I know sometimes it takes a few hours for you to come out of an episode. Take your time, make sure you feel safe, and remember to try and feel your feelings. I'll see you in a while."

Dr. Zahir stands up and leaves, Bucky still staring blankly at his lap. He hears the elevator doors open and Steve and Sam step through, pausing to speak quietly with Dr. Zahir.

"-dissociated," Dr. Zahir is saying. 

"Why?"

"Can't tell you that. Confidentiality. But just keep an eye on him, and call me as soon as he comes back."

"Okay. Thank you."

Dr. Zahir leaves and Steve and Sam's footsteps approach, Steve sitting cautiously on the other end of the couch as Sam takes the armchair. They don't speak, but quickly busy themselves sketching or reading as Bucky stares into space, mind blank and numb.

***

Awareness trickles in, bringing with it a flood of thoughts and feelings, overlapping and confusing. He-he hates Hydra, he does, they were bad, they hurt him- _he deserved it-_ he was-he is traumatized, he knows this- _no-_ he has PTSD, they were bad- _they were good-_ he wants-he wants this to stop, he doesn't want to deal with it, it's too much, he can't,  _he can't-_ he thought-he thought they were good, he deserved it, he deserves pain but-but they weren't good, they were bad, but-but  _he still deserved it,_ he is bad, he doesn't deserve to live, he killed people and he followed Hydra and he-he  _liked_ them, he fucking liked them and that makes him as bad as them, he thought they were good and he followed orders  _willingly_ and that makes him-no, they were-they treated him better than he deserved, they thought they were doing the right thing- _I'm sorry-_ but they were bad, Bucky is bad, he deserves to be hurt, he is nothing, he is not even human, he deserves to die, he  _wants_ to die, he wants this to stop- _make it stop-_

He gets up, expression still blank, body moving stiffly, without his control. His body is not his own. He can't feel it. Everything is numb. He wants it to stop. He wants to feel something. He walks towards the kitchen, mind filled with static. 

"Bucky?" He hears Steve get up, starting to follow him. 

Bucky grabs a knife from the block, raising it, aiming for his throat. He'll bleed out in seconds. Everything will stop.

"No!" A heavy weight crashes into him, an arm wrapping around his throat and a hand grabbing his wrist, pulling it away. Bucky clutches the knife tighter, thrashing in the grip. Sam runs in, staring in horror before grabbing the knife from Bucky's restrained hand and throwing it on the table. Bucky tries to struggle, knows he could get free, but something stops him from lashing out at Steve, from killing him. He can't hurt him. He's already hurt him enough. The arm tightens on his throat and Steve's other arm wraps around his midsection, restraining his arms, a leg hooked around his and chest pressed to Bucky. Panic courses through Bucky and he tilts his head down, sinking his teeth into Steve's arm.

"Motherfuck-"

Steve's grip loosens just enough for Bucky to rip free, lunging towards the knife on the table as blood runs down his chin. His hand scrabbles on the surface before strong arms wrap around him, pinning his arms to his side, and he lets out a frustrated scream as he thrashes, pushing backwards until he rams Steve back into the counter. Steve just grips tighter, pressed against him, keeping him in place. Bucky panics, trying to get free, to make the heavy weight against him stop, the body he can feel pressed to his back, harsh breath in his ear- _no, please, make it stop_ -

The world narrows to a fine point as he feels his limbs lock up, body stilling and eyes glazed in terror. His breaths come in harsh pants but he can't move, he can't speak, he can't do anything but watch himself distantly as he goes limp in Steve's hold, the panic turning into numbness. His limbs tingle. The world goes grey and sounds distort, his own breathing loud in his ears as it slows. He is floating, separated from his body, riding the line between panic and calm, everything strange and dreamlike.

Steve's arms loosen slightly around him but he doesn't let go. Sam's form blurs in his vision.

"Barnes?" His voice echoes and distorts, drifting away. 

"Dissociated," Sam says. "Let's make him comfortable and call Dr. Zahir."

Steve's arms unwind from around him but only so he can step to the side, grabbing Bucky's arm gently as he starts to lead him forward. Bucky's body moves without conscious control, stumbling forwards as Steve murmurs reassurances. He blinks and finds himself on the couch, his body tipping to the side until his head hits a pillow. He turns his face into it, squeezing his eyes shut as tremors rack his body. A blanket is gently placed over him. The shaking grows worse, his whole body trembling as his chest aches and burns. He feels tears slip from between his closed eyes and he takes a ragged breath, swallowing down the tightness in his chest and choking on the pain that threatens to consume him. A hand touches his ankle and he flinches, curling tighter into himself with a whimper.

"Sorry." There's a tapping sound and then a faint ringing.

"Hello?" Dr. Zahir's voice says, tinny and quiet over the speakers of the phone.

"Hi," Steve replies quietly. "We had an...incident. I'm not sure what to do."

"What happened?"

"He, uh, he went for a knife. Tried to slit his own throat. We stopped him, but he checked out again. We made him comfortable and now he seems...I don't know."

"I'll be there soon. Make sure he's safe."

"Thanks."

The call ends. He can feel Steve shift on the couch where he sits by Bucky's feet.

"Buck? Can you hear me?"

Bucky doesn't respond, keeping his eyes tightly closed and gritting his teeth in an effort to make his chin stop trembling. His chest feels tight, as if it might burst at any second, unleashing a flood of pain. It's too much. He can't take it. He wants it to stop. He can't do this. He feels like he's coming apart at the seams, ripping in half.  _It's too much._ He shivers and shakes uncontrollably, fingers digging into the couch cushions. He can't take it. He wants to die. He wants this to stop, for everything to stop. 

He must drift off into his head again, for he snaps back to awareness with a shudder to hear footsteps approaching. 

"Okay, I'll take it from here."

"I don't want to leave you alone with him. What if he tries again? I'm the only one who can stop him."

"That's a good point, but I still want privacy. How about you two go into one of your rooms, and Jarvis will tell you if you're needed. Don't try and listen in."

"Okay."

Steve and Sam's footsteps retreat and he hears Dr. Zahir sink into the armchair. He sits up on instinct, drawing his blanket-covered knees up to rest his forehead on them as he shivers, breaths coming unevenly. He wraps his arms around his knees, fighting down the lump in his throat and keeping his eyes shut tightly.

"What are you feeling right now?" Dr. Zahir asks gently.

Bucky shudders again and clenches his teeth, shaking his head slightly.

"I know it's hard, but you can't avoid this."

He feels a spark of anger and lifts his head, glaring at Dr. Zahir. "Watch me," he snarls, still shaking.

She doesn't even flinch. "Anger. That's good. You're feeling something."

"I don't  _want_ to feel," he spits. "I don't  _want_ to deal with this. I don't want it. Any of it. I just-" Abruptly, the anger changes course, and Bucky feels tears prick his eyes as something in his chest cracks open. "I just want it to  _stop._ I can't-I can't do it, I can't, I just-" The dam breaks and he curls in on himself again, sobbing as he squeezes his eyes shut and rests his head on his drawn-up knees, voice small and broken. "I want to go home."

Dr. Zahir sits silently and lets his sobs dwindle to hiccuping breaths before speaking. 

"You probably had all this trauma tucked away in boxes in your mind, am I right? You knew it was there, and it bothered you, but you couldn't quite let yourself look at it."

Bucky nods against his knees.

"Okay. This is part of the recovery process. When you did your impact statement, all of it came flooding back, and it was too much to handle. I think you've been repressing all of this, including your identification with your captors, and trying to act and feel how you think everyone else wants you to act and feel. You channeled your feelings into anger against Hydra because that was seen as acceptable, but underneath you were still struggling because for years,  _years_ you had thought they were good, and that all your trauma was deserved. You couldn't accept that everything you thought you knew for years was a lie. You couldn't accept that the only scraps of kindness you received in seventy years weren't real. If you didn't deserve any of it, that means that it simply happened because some very evil people did some very evil things, that there really was no good reason for it, and that's hard to wrap your mind around. Understanding and accepting that you were tortured for years and made to do some very bad things, and that no, the people doing it weren't trying to do what was right, is extremely difficult. It makes it real. It means that people hurt you and made you hurt others because they wanted to, and you were completely helpless. You had no control. That's terrifying, I know. You want to think that if you deserved it, if you followed them willingly and let yourself be hurt, then at least you had a modicum of control. At least there was a reason for the torture. You don't want to accept that for years you had absolutely no control over anything, that you were tortured and abused and lied to and there was no goodness in it, no kindness at all. You were completely alone."

Every word strikes right to Bucky's heart, like she's read the exact thoughts running through his mind and spit them back out at him. 

"I can't-" he chokes out brokenly. "I can't do it, I just-I can't. It's too much."

"You  _can,_ Bucky. You're not alone anymore. Let me help you. You're not going to feel better overnight; it takes time. But it does get better. Let me help you, let Steve and Sam and Natasha help you. You've been through so much, and you survived; you survived for seventy years. And all of that is over. You're finally free. You just have to survive this, and you can. You're a fighter."

Bucky lifts his head, scrubbing his hand over his face. "I don't-I don't know how," he croaks.

"One step at a time. You just put one foot in front of the other, and you keep going. You tell me what you're feeling, you communicate with Steve, you let your friends be there for you. You let us carry the weight for a while. And right now, you tell me what you need."

Bucky feels his chin tremble. "Steve. I need Steve."

Dr. Zahir nods. "Jarvis?" she says softly.

A second later Steve comes running out, looking panicked.

"What happened?"

Dr. Zahir shakes her head. "We're okay. You're just needed."

Steve looks confused but sits down on the couch, watching Bucky worriedly. Bucky uncurls from his position, throwing himself across the couch and into Steve with a sob, burying his face in Steve's neck as he clings tightly. He's shaking, tears dampening Steve's shirt, and he clutches him harder, Steve the only thing keeping him from shaking apart. Steve is tense, but gradually he relaxes, arms coming around Bucky tentatively and a hand starting to rub his back. Bucky sobs into his embrace, trusting Steve to hold him together, to keep him safe, pouring out his pain into Steve's strong arms. This, this is real. Steve is real. He is good. He is  _safe._

***

The next few days pass by in a blur. Dr. Zahir talks about complex PTSD, and dissociation, and identifying with his captors, and self-blame, and everything that goes along with his trauma. She talks about adjusting his therapy slightly to address it. He does homework assignments and writes down all his feelings and talks until his voice goes hoarse; he cries and screams and stabs himself in the leg with a kitchen knife to make the noise in his head stop. The knives disappear from the kitchen.

He feeds from Steve and tries to kiss him until Steve pushes him away gently; he panics whenever Steve stops touching him or moves away one day and panics when he gets within ten feet the next. Steve sleeps on the floor next to the couch in case he tries anything during the night, and he's never left alone during the day. He spars with Natalia and ends up in Tony's workshop a few times, tinkering with parts until his fingers go numb and Tony gently calls Steve up to collect him. He tries to shower and has a panic attack at the feeling of water running over his face, and ends up dissociating on the bathroom floor for two hours. 

A few more days pass. He stabilizes slightly, has a fruitful CPT session with Dr. Zahir talking about identifying thoughts and feelings. He plays Mario Kart with Sam. He cuddles on the couch with Steve, head on his shoulder. Natalia braids his hair. He has another trigger reduction session, sitting opposite Natalia as she folds pieces of paper into origami. He comes back to awareness when she hits him in the face with a paper plane, blinking in surprise.

"Did you just hit me in the face with a paper plane?" he asks incredulously. "What the hell?"

Natalia cackles. "Welcome back."

Dr. Jones tells him he's getter better and better. He'll always have some lingering brain damage, but the triggers are almost gone. His mind is almost his own again. 

He meets with his lawyer again, finalizing his defense. The trial is fast approaching, and he'll be tried in the US District Court in New York by US Attorney Preet Bharara, as Hawthorne had pushed for him not to be moved back to DC for the trial. It means he'll get to stay in the Tower during the trial, something he's immensely grateful for, but if they find him guilty....well, Bucky's pretty sure it'll end with lethal injection. He can't let himself hope that he'll be found not guilty. He'd rather be resigned and prepared rather than to hope and have it ripped away.

Dr. Zahir assigns him his first trauma account. She tells him to pick the worst one, the one that stands out in his mind the most. He finds that it's difficult, to pick the worst one, they're all bad, but he settles on the time after he killed the agents, when Rumlow made sure he wouldn't do it again. That is the worst, he thinks. That's the memory that haunts him, that he sees whenever he closes his eyes, the words that echo in his ears.

He picks a time and writes, alone in his room but Steve right outside and Jarvis watching his every move. The letters come out shaky, tears sliding down his face as he writes down every detail. He has to stop halfway through to dry heave, and then has a panic attack and wakes up a few hours later to find himself curled in the corner. He steels himself and gets up, returning to his desk and drawing a line where he stopped writing before continuing on. 

Reading it is even worse. His voice breaks, his hands shake, and he wants nothing more than to retreat into blankness, but Dr. Zahir won't let him.

"You have to let yourself feel," she tells him. "Avoiding it will get you nowhere. Take as much time as you need to read and process."

So he talks. He talks about attacking the agents, getting shot, the techs digging the bullets out. He talks about how Rumlow threw him into the cell and kicked him, how he yanked his hair and said the words that haunt him to this day. 

_-"You don't attack me or Pierce of Hydra under any circumstances, understand? I know what set you off, even if Pierce doesn't, and you're not allowed to react ever again. Your body belongs to us. We can do whatever the fuck we want with it." He gives the soldier's head a shake. "You got that through your head? You don't have rights, or wants, or anything. You don't even have feelings. You're nothing but a machine. You're going to let anyone touch you however they want and you're not going to do a damn thing because it's not up to you. You have no control. Got it?_  "-

How he smashed his face into the floor, how he straddled him and took out the knife. 

_-"You're going to stay still. Don't move a muscle, and don't make a sound. You deserve this."-_

How he cut into him with the knife, over his chest and down his arm. The sound it'd made when he pried Bucky's fingernails off, the pain, Rumlow's hand striking his face when he cried out.

_-"I said, stay still. And quiet."-_

The crack of Bucky's teeth from gritting them, the feeling as his jaw fractured from trying to stay silent. Closing his eyes but being made to open them.

- _"Eyes open."-_

Watching the blood run down his hand, the pain of damaged nerves in his fingertips. Then Rumlow moving, undoing his pants, Bucky not resisting. Rumlow's hand around his throat. His weight over him. The pain, the sound of Rumlow's harsh breaths, how it felt. How he'd drifted off into his head. Believing Rumlow's words. How when it was over, Rumlow told him the same thing he always did.

_-"Not a word."-_

How he helped Bucky put on his pants, and passed him over to the techs. The relief, finally, as they inserted the IV. Gentle hands and soft voices as they assessed his injuries, their disapproval. A shower, warmth and gentleness and soft towels, the techs helping him. The techs realizing.

_-"I'm sorry. I don't agree with how you're being treated, especially...well. That's just wrong. But it's necessary, to an extent. Hydra is trying to bring order to the world, and you are vital to that mission. I wish there was another way, I really do."-_

He briefly summarizes them telling Pierce, and Pierce not caring, and then going back into cryo, before finishing. He feels drained, wrung out, tears drying on his face and breaths still coming unevenly. 

"Thank you for sharing," Dr. Zahir says. "I know this was very difficult to remember and talk about. I still think you're not quite letting yourself feel everything, because it sounded a little like a report, but for now that's okay. Even a small amount of emotion is progress."

Bucky nods tiredly.

"Let's talk about this," Dr. Zahir continues. Bucky takes a breath, steeling himself.

They talk about stuck points, and self-blame, and what he was feeling in the moment, until Bucky finally blurts out-"It wasn't rape."

Dr. Zahir blinks, tapping her pen on her clipboard. "Why do you say that?"

"Because-" Bucky swallows. "Because I didn't say no."

Dr. Zahir shakes her head. "An absence of a no does not mean consent. Consent requires an enthusiastic yes. Let me ask you this,  _could_ you have said no?"

He hesitates, looking down at his hands. "I mean...no. That was-that was the whole point. I was supposed to let anyone do anything to me and not fight back."

Dr. Zahir gives him a look. "I think you just made my point for me. Do you see how you had no ability to consent? That this was an act of torture?"

He nods grudgingly. "Yeah, I guess."

"Do you believe that this was your fault?"

He shrugs, twisting his fingers together. "Maybe. I mean, I could have fought back. I just laid there."

"You told me you had been shot."

He nods.

"So how could you have fought back?"

"I just...I was still alive. I wasn't injured that bad. I could have fought back, done something at least. I let him do that."

"Do you remember our conversation about learned helplessness?"

He sighs, grimacing. "Yeah. I know. I just...I feel like I should've done something."

"But we've established that you really couldn't, for a variety of reasons. You were injured, traumatized, and brainwashed into compliance. The things he said were perfectly targeted to make you stop fighting back. You know, I'm wondering if you're confusing 'I should have done something' with 'I wish I could have done something.'"

"I do wish I could have done something."

"I wish so too. You didn't deserve that. And from everything you've told me, I don't see any way you could have stopped it. How does it feel to say 'I wish I could have stopped it' instead of 'I should have stopped it'?"

He frowns. "Better, I guess. I feel...sad, but not guilty."

Dr. Zahir smiles slightly. "That's okay. Good even. Sadness is a valid emotion. This is something you can feel sad about. You were tortured and sexually assaulted. It wasn't your fault, but it still hurts. Allow yourself to feel that."

His next assignment is to write the account again, with more details and more feelings, including what he's feeling as he writes it, and then read it every single day until the next CPT session. They still have regular sessions in between, where she helps him cope with daily stresses and problems. His emotions are all over the place because of the cPTSD, and he has trouble with impulse control and often swings between one extreme and the other of thinking. Sometimes he hates Hydra with a burning passion, sometimes he's convinced that they were good, if misguided people, and that they treated him well. He has sudden urges to hurt himself, and his sense of self changes by the minute; sometimes he feels helpless, sometimes guilty, sometimes he hates himself and thinks he's not human, and sometimes he doesn't even think he's Bucky. Sometimes he clings to Steve like a burr, unwilling to leave his side, trusting no one else, and sometimes he pushes Steve away or finds the smallest faults to exploit and justify his anger. Steve, to his credit, is surprisingly resilient in the face of Bucky's neuroses. He's been seeing a therapist, and he's not afraid to set boundaries at times, even if they make Bucky angry or upset. Sam becomes a good friend, always steady and understanding but willing to call Bucky out on his bullshit. Natalia brings out his softer side, and launches into strings of quiet Russian as she sets him straight firmly but gently. Slowly, but surely, Bucky starts to make progress. He dissociates less, though sometimes that means panicking more, but he's able to bring himself down. He stays in his safe spaces when he's feeling unstable, though they have expanded to include most of the apartment, Tony's workshop, and the training floor. He tells Steve or Sam or Natalia when he's feeling unstable, or when he needs them to be there for him. 

He reads the trauma account again for the next session, and it takes him the better part of an hour to get through it, interspersed with tears and anger. When he's done, he feels better, as if something dark and painful has been expelled from his chest. Dr. Zahir talks more about the techs, and his attachment to them.

"Just because they felt bad doesn't make what they did okay," she says gently. "They had a choice to stay with Hydra, to not stop what was happening to you."

He picks at a thread over his knee. "I know. It's just...they were so nice. They treated me almost like a person. They really did regret what was happening to me. The one, when we captured him at the bank, he said-he said that he should have stopped it years ago. He apologized."

"And that's good. Listen, people aren't usually all bad or all good. There's a lot of shades of grey. You don't have to hate them, and you can acknowledge that they were better people than those like Pierce or Rumlow, but you have to hold them accountable for their actions. They were part of the system that abused you, even if the part they played was that of care taking rather than hurting. Someone had to do it. Giving you medical attention wasn't being nice, it was simply keeping you functional so that Hydra could keep using you." Dr. Zahir pauses. "It seems, from what you've told me, that they may have considered you more like one considers a pet, or a racehorse. They didn't like the idea of hurting you, but they had no problem keeping you imprisoned and forcing you to do things. You said they treated you  _almost_ like a person. That means they didn't  _actually_ treat you like a person, Bucky."

He turns this over in his mind, chewing on his lip. "I guess. I just-I can't hate them, though. They were the only ones who-who were nice, who cared about me. They could've been rough, and mistreated me, but they didn't. They were always kind."

"It's understandable to feel this way. They gave you the only kindness or gentle touch you ever encountered under Hydra. Latching onto that is normal. It may have even helped you survive at the time." She leans forward. "As long as you understand that they weren't right."

He nods. "I do."

He's supposed to keep reading his trauma account every day, and they will have a CPT session on challenging questions about the trauma before moving on to another trauma account. The trial is looming on the horizon, and Bucky works even harder at breaking the trigger words, up to two sessions a day now and starting to break them aggressively. His head rarely hurts these days. They decide to trigger him and then try and make him do things until he refuses. The things are small and inconsequential, and Dr. Zahir makes sure he's okay with having his will taken away like that. 

_"Ready to comply,"_ the soldier says.

His handler nods. "Stand up."

The soldier stands.

"Walk around the couch."

The soldier walks around the couch, slightly confused. He stops in front of his handler, waiting for instructions.

"Uh, touch your nose," his handler says.

The soldier raises an eyebrow slightly.  _What the hell?_ After a second's hesitation he touches his nose. For some reason he feels stupid, though that's not an emotion he recalls experiencing.

"Okay, stop. Uh, stand on one leg."

The soldier stares, dropping his hand. "What?"

He sees his handler's lips twitch. "Stand on one leg."

"Why?"

His handler blinks. "Um, because I said so?"

The soldier narrows his eyes at him. The handler looks uncomfortable and slightly amused, radiating no threat. He also looks...familiar. The name swims up to him.  _Steve._

"Fuck no," the soldier says. He is an elite operative. He does not stand on one leg just because some green handler thinks it's funny.

Steve brightens. "Bucky?"

"Who the hell is Bucky?"

Steve sighs. "I guess not. So, why won't you stand on one leg?"

The soldier stares. Who the fuck is this idiot? He draws himself up, crossing his arms and twitching his hair out of his face. "I am an elite operative. I do not perform for your amusement." He looks Steve up and down, deliberately scathing. "Who are you? You obviously haven't been briefed on being an effective handler. Your Russian is flawed, you are too uncertain, and you do not respond appropriately to questioning."

Steve gapes, and then starts laughing as the soldier stares, bewildered. "Oh my-oh my god," Steve chokes out. "I just got-I got dragged by the Winter Soldier."

The soldier frowns. "I didn't touch you."

This only makes Steve laugh harder. He's bent over, hands on his knees, tears streaming down his face as he wheezes and shakes with laughter. The soldier feels the strangest sensation to laugh as well. 

"Pal, I think you've got a screw loose," the soldier remarks. He's not sure where the accent came from, but it feels familiar in his mouth. Brooklyn, he thinks, though he doesn't know why.

Steve straightens up, wiping his face. "Sorry, sorry, I'm good. This isn't funny."

The soldier frowns. "Who are you?"

"Uh, I'm Steve."

The soldier raises an eyebrow. "Yes. I know that."

Steve blinks. "You do? How?"

"Do I look like I know?"

Steve nods. "Right. Okay. I'm Steve, you're Bucky. We're...friends."

"Why did you hesitate?"

For some reason Steve's face goes red, the soldier smelling the blood rushing there. A familiar smell, like the familiar tug in his chest.

"Um," Steve says. "Well, we're friends, and more than friends."

"What the hell does that mean?"

Steve winces. "We're...together. Like..in a relationship."

"Why didn't you just say that?" the soldier grumbles. Honestly.

"Um, I don't know."

The soldier stares. "You're an idiot."

"Thanks?"

The soldier squints. "Bucky? I'm Bucky?"

"Yeah."

"That's a stupid name."

Steve laughs again, eyes crinkling in a way that makes the soldier's stomach swoop. "Oh my god. Buck."

"Buck? I thought it was Bucky?"

Steve tries and fails to stop laughing. "No, uh-it's my nickname for you. I call you Buck. I mean, your nickname is already Bucky, but I guess I....gave your nickname a nickname?"

The soldier presses a hand to his aching forehead. "Then what the hell is my actual name?" he grits out, thoroughly done.  _I don't have a name,_ is the correct response, he knows this, but it feels wrong. Maybe Steve gave him a name.

"Oh. Sorry. James Buchanan Barnes."

He squints, then drops his hand. "The  _president?"_

Steve looks like he's about to die from laughter at this point. "Well, yeah, I guess you're kinda named after the president. You always said there were too many James's though, so you went by Bucky. Becca took it from 'Buchanan,' because she couldn't pronounce it."

_James Buchanan Barnes._ It clicks into place, memories rushing back. Bucky groans, rubbing his forehead again.

"Stevie, I swear to god, you are the absolute worst." He looks at Steve in exasperation. "Even the Winter Soldier was dying inside because of how awkward you are."

Steve grins, and barks a laugh. "Are you back?"

"Hell yeah I'm back. I don't think I really ever left. Pal, I was judging you hardcore. I was about to give you a crash course in how to stop being an idiot. Guess I didn't remember that that's impossible."

"You did seem kind of...like yourself, but not. Like the two were...blended?"

Bucky nods. "Yup. Exactly how it felt. Guess it's progress." He moves forwards to exit the room, the door opening automatically. He looks at Dr. Jones questioningly.

"What's the verdict, doc?"

She smiles, looking happy. "Great. A few more and I think the words won't even work at all. Your brainwaves didn't shift as much during the trigger words, and there was actually no seizure. You just had a bit of a dissociative episode, if you will. You were kind of yourself, only not."

Bucky nods, turning to Steve. "You hear that? We're almost done."

Steve smiles, and Bucky steps forward to hug him, looping his arms loosely around Steve's waist.

"We're almost done," Steve murmurs in his ear. 

Bucky tightens his hold, exhaling into the crook of Steve's neck. He doesn't know what will happen next, but at least he has this.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Complex post-traumatic stress disorder (C-PTSD; also known as complex trauma disorder) is a psychological disorder thought to occur as a result of repetitive, prolonged trauma involving sustained abuse or abandonment by a caregiver or other interpersonal relationships with an uneven power dynamic. C-PTSD relates to the trauma model of mental disorders and is associated with sexual, emotional or physical abuse or neglect in childhood, intimate partner violence, victims of kidnapping and hostage situations, indentured servants, victims of slavery, sweatshop workers, prisoners of war, victims of bullying, concentration camp survivors, residential school survivors, and defectors of cults or cult-like organizations. Situations involving captivity/entrapment (a situation lacking a viable escape route for the victim or a perception of such) can lead to C-PTSD-like symptoms, which include prolonged feelings of terror, worthlessness, helplessness, and deformation of one's identity and sense of self.
> 
> Six clusters of symptoms have been suggested for diagnosis of C-PTSD:
> 
> alterations in regulation of affect and impulses;  
> alterations in attention or consciousness;  
> alterations in self-perception;  
> alterations in relations with others;  
> somatization;  
> alterations in systems of meaning.
> 
> Experiences in these areas may include:
> 
> Difficulties regulating emotions, including symptoms such as persistent dysphoria, chronic suicidal preoccupation, self injury, explosive or extremely inhibited anger (may alternate), or compulsive or extremely inhibited sexuality (may alternate).
> 
> Variations in consciousness, including forgetting traumatic events (i.e., psychogenic amnesia), reliving experiences (either in the form of intrusive PTSD symptoms or in ruminative preoccupation), or having episodes of dissociation.
> 
> Changes in self-perception, such as a chronic and pervasive sense of helplessness, paralysis of initiative, shame, guilt, self-blame, a sense of defilement or stigma, and a sense of being completely different from other human beings.
> 
> Varied changes in the perception of the perpetrator, such as attributing total power to the perpetrator, becoming preoccupied with the relationship to the perpetrator, including a preoccupation with revenge, idealization or paradoxical gratitude, seeking approval from the perpetrator, a sense of a special relationship with the perpetrator or acceptance of the perpetrator's belief system or rationalizations.
> 
> Alterations in relations with others, including isolation and withdrawal, persistent distrust, anger and hostility, a repeated search for a rescuer, disruption in intimate relationships and repeated failures of self-protection.
> 
> Loss of, or changes in, one's system of meanings, which may include a loss of sustaining faith or a sense of hopelessness and despair.
> 
> Disconnection from surroundings accompanied by feelings of terror and confusion.
> 
> (Wikipedia)


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know nothing about legal matters or trials so sorry if things are wildly incorrect, just chalk it up to the MCU doing things differently. God knows the filmmakers seem to forget how to do basic research and put in completely inaccurate stuff for even the simplest things, so I think I get a pass.

The morning of the trial dawns bright and clear, and Bucky sits on the floor with his head on Steve's shoulder as they watch the sun rise, glinting over the buildings and streaming in through the windows. Bucky tries not to think about what's going to happen and lets himself enjoy the moment, inhaling Steve's comforting scent. But eventually, reality sets in, and they have to get ready.

"Come on," Steve says softly, offering him a hand. Bucky takes it, hearing Sam pad into the kitchen and start the coffee maker. 

Bucky takes a quick shower, shaves, and then dresses in his court clothes, black slacks and a navy blue dress shirt that Pepper had sent up along with multiple other outfits for the trial. He supposes she'd had Jarvis take his measurements, because everything fits perfectly. They'd decided on no ties, as Bucky didn't think he could handle the constriction around his throat. He combs his hair and then ties it in a neat bun at the base of his neck the way Natalia had showed him, tucking the strands that fall out behind his ears. His dog tags are a cool weight against his chest as he tucks them into his shirt, leaving the top button undone, and they serve as a reminder of who he is. He looks at himself in the mirror, blinking at his appearance.

He looks...normal. Human. With his hair pulled back he looks more like Bucky, and the permanent scruff he usually has is gone, making him look young. There are shadows under his eyes, but they've lost the haunted look they used to have, and his cheeks glow with color. His dress shirt is silken and soft, and the color brings out his eyes, the blue depths sparking with life. The collar almost covers the scar on his throat, and only the hand of his metal arm glints at the end of his sleeve, not visible in the mirror. If he only looks in the mirror, if he tilts his chin down slightly to cover the scar and angles his head so it looks like his hair is short, he could really be Bucky Barnes. He shakes himself, turning away. He  _is_ Bucky. Just a new version.

He ties his shoes and ventures out into the kitchen, Steve turning and staring. Bucky shifts uncomfortably.

"What?"

Steve blinks and closes his mouth. "Just...you look really good."

Bucky looks Steve up and down as well, taking in the matching back pants and blue shirt that seem to hug his form, bringing out his clear blue eyes and accentuating his arms, though Steve has also paired it with a tie. Bucky finds his mouth getting dry and clears his throat, nodding. "You, uh, you look good as well."

Sam turns, holding out a mug of coffee that Bucky takes gratefully. "You clean up well, Barnes, I gotta say. I mean...damn." He whistles.

"No hitting on my boyfriend," Steve says distractedly, taking a bite of eggs as he scrolls through his StarkPhone. 

Sam rolls his eyes, sliding into a chair opposite. "Please. As if."

Bucky takes the seat next to Steve, leaning over to peer at his phone. "What are they saying?"

Steve hastily turns the screen off. "Nothing."

Bucky raises an eyebrow. "Really?"

Steve shakes his head. "You don't need to know."

Bucky scowls. Dr. Zahir and his lawyer had already talked to him about the things people might say, and how they were wrong. How they just didn't have all the information.  _Don't let what anyone else says influence you,_ Dr. Zahir had said.  _Remember what we've been working on, what we've talked about._

"That bad, huh," he says bitterly.

"Not all of it's bad," Steve tries. "They just don't know what really happened. A lot of people are on your side, Buck. And the others...they'll change their minds."

Bucky sighs. "Sure."

Steve grabs his hand on the table, squeezing tightly. "Don't worry. Everything's gonna work out."

***

Sharon meets them at the bottom of the Tower, pausing to give Natalia a swift kiss on the cheek.  

"Sergeant Barnes," she greets him. "How are you?"

He takes a breath. "As well as I can be. You?"

"The same. I'll be glad when this trial is over."

He nods his agreement, though he's not sure he does. The trial ending means he'll most likely never see Steve again. 

He's not cuffed, but agents surround him as he's led towards the doors, glancing back one last time to meet Steve's eyes before Sharon gently pulls him forward. Outside there's a huge crowd, shouting and in some cases waving signs. Bucky glances up and catches one, making his stomach squeeze painfully.

_Murderer,_ the sign proclaims. 

Bucky looks back down, keeping his eyes on the ground as he's led to the waiting SUV.

The ride is much the same as before, only this time he's not cuffed and wearing nice clothes. They drive to the courthouse, where there's another large crowd gathered outside, and the agents hustle him into the safety of the building. It's fairly quiet, not many people let inside yet, and Bucky is escorted into the courtroom where he sees Hawthorne waiting at the defense table. The agents line the room, Sharon standing to the side, and he sinks into the chair next to him, Hawthorne looking over with a smile.

"Good morning. You look very nice."

Bucky attempts a smile. "Thanks."

He senses Steve and turns to see him and the others file in, taking the first row of seats behind Bucky. Steve smiles at him reassuringly and Bucky relaxes slightly, returning it. They're here both to support him and because they're being called as witnesses, but Bucky has never been more grateful to have them with him. Natalia leans on the rail, crossing her arms on it as she looks at Bucky.

_"How are you holding up, Yasha?"_

Bucky blows out a breath.  _"I don't know. Nervous. I'm glad you're here, Natalia."_ He hesitates.  _"Are you sure you want to do this? To testify? All your secrets will be spilled."_

Natalia nods.  _"For you, anything."_

People start to fill the courtroom, and Bucky glances over and sees the US Attorney flipping through papers at the next table. The court clerks and personnel take seats near the front, and potential jurors are ushered in. Bucky sees the first news crews appear, setting up cameras as more people fill the rows of seats. The trial is open to the public, even though Hawthorne had pushed for a closed trial, and Bucky is dreading having the entire world inspecting every shred of evidence and discussing everything Hydra did to him. At least the crowd is restricted due to limited space in the courtroom, and recording has not been permitted in the case of the video evidence. Bucky feels bad for the jurors and the people watching the trial, as they have to see all the horrors of Hydra. At least there's not much actual torture recorded, only the after-effects. The cell in DC hadn't had a camera, something he's grateful for. He doesn't want anyone to know exactly what happened in that room.

The judge walks into the room and a hush falls.

"All rise for the honorable Loretta Preska," a court aide intones.

Bucky stands with everyone else until Judge Preska waves at them to be seated, sweeping her robes around her as she settles into her chair. 

"Good morning," she says. There's a murmured 'good morning' from the courtroom in reply. "Let us begin."

The judge starts by laying out the rules of the court and the proceedings as well as the charges, and then jury selection begins. Bucky whispers to Hawthorne to ask in his questions whether they're okay seeing disturbing evidence. Hawthorne nods, writing it down. All of the potential jurors know who he is, which isn't surprising given his name is in every history textbook. Some express heartfelt support and declare they could never sentence him guilty, some even citing that he's their "hero." It's surprising, to say the least, but at least better than the ones who spit out that he's a murderer and a traitor and they think he should be killed. Everyone has an opinion, it seems. He's not sure there's any such thing as an unbiased jury in his case.

The judge weeds them out one by one, and then both lawyers get a chance to ask them questions. 

"Would the presence of disturbing and violent evidence be too hard to handle, for any reason?" Hawthorne asks.

Several say yes, others say no. 

"What kind of evidence?" one asks.

Hawthorne nods as if he expected this. "Video, documentation, and other forms of evidence of torture, medical experimentation, mind control and tampering, brainwashing, psychological and emotional abuse, and violent death."

Several potential jurors look distinctly uncomfortable, others look interested. A few more beg off. The selection narrows, the hours ticking by as person after person is questioned and decided on. Finally, a jury of twelve people is selected, all of them reasonably impartial and rational. The judge swears them in, they break for lunch, and then the trial begins.

The prosecution, US Attorney Bharara, makes his opening statement first. He reminds the court that the defense bears the burden of proof for the insanity plea, and that they are simply trying to determine whether he knew right from wrong and was in control of his actions when the crimes were committed. He states that both sides will present evidence, but it is up to the jury to decide the verdict. Bucky notes that he doesn't ever say what he thinks the verdict is, or that he expects the evidence to prove that Bucky was indeed responsible. He simply lays out how it will go, and reminds the jury to be impartial; he tells them exactly what is needed for the insanity plea and how hard it is to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that someone was insane at the time.

When he finishes it is Hawthorne's turn. Hawthorne again reminds the jury that he bears the burden of proof, but that he believes the evidence will show that Bucky not only didn't know right from wrong, but was victimized by Hydra. He says that the evidence shows that he fought back, but that he was stripped of any autonomy, choice, or rational thought, and brainwashed into believing that Hydra was doing good.

"James Barnes is the longest serving prisoner of war in history," Hawthorne says, looking around the room with a weighted stare. "He has endured seventy years of imprisonment, medical experimentation, torture, mind control, memory erasure, and psychological and emotional abuse, and been made to commit grievous acts of violence and murder against his will. I believe that you, the jury, will come to see that he had no choice in his actions, and that he should, without question, be found not guilty." He nods. "Thank you."

Bucky blinks, stunned, as Hawthorne sits back down. Hawthorne's words were powerful. He feels a glimmer of hope. Maybe, just maybe, they can win this.

The defense begins with the evidence, as they bear the burden of proof. They begin by having Dr. Zahir take the stand to give her psychological assessment.

"After much evaluation, it is clear to me that Sergeant Barnes was both not in control of and wholly unaware of the wrongness of his actions," she states. "He not only believed that he was doing good, he had no concept of self or the ability to question or fight back. His lack of memories and isolation from any information rendered him unable to make informed decisions, and the coercion, brainwashing, and abuse he suffered resulted in his mental state being extremely unstable. He was severely traumatized, and suffered episodes of dissociation, depersonalization, and post-traumatic stress reactions. He was in a state of induced dissociative fugue, and I would assert that he also suffered from Stockholm Syndrome, something that later manifested as complex post-traumatic stress disorder. He was rendered completely dependent on his captors physically, emotionally, and mentally, and was told that he was doing good by following their orders. Being a soldier in the US Army before his capture, his mind was primed to follow orders, including those of killing others. As a sniper during World War II, he eliminated many German and Hydra soldiers, and he believed in what he was doing, something I think all of us would agree with. By erasing salient memories and using coercion and brainwashing, Hydra took advantage of this predisposition to follow orders and used it to make him kill those that they wanted. Sergeant Barnes was not aware that he was fighting for the wrong side, and any time he questioned the lack of information or his orders he was tortured and mind-controlled into compliance, often having the memories of questioning removed. He was completely powerless to fight back, and it's my professional opinion that there is nothing he could have done differently. Simply put, he was not in his right mind and had no control over any of his actions, and I would submit that he was insane at the time of the crimes."

Dr. Zahir speaks eloquently and calmly, laying out the facts and explaining any psychological terms to the jury. It's incredible, watching her lay it out, and Bucky finds himself believing her, something that is good, as the whole case rests on her. The insanity plea is a psychological one, and a psychologist's assessment is the only real piece they need to confirm it. After she's finished her preliminary testimony, they move on to the tapes to have her explain each one from a psychological standpoint. 

"Your Honor, I move for my client to not be present for the viewing of video evidence," Hawthorne says.

Judge Preska peers at him. "And the reason for this?"

"It may cause further trauma and exacerbate his post-traumatic stress."

The judge studies him. "Unfortunately, Mr. Barnes must be present throughout all of the proceedings, as he has been declared competent to stand trial. If he is not, he will be held in contempt of the court."

Hawthorne looks at him. "Will you be okay?"

Bucky nods, feeling distant horror. He swallows. "Yes."

"Very well, your Honor."

Hawthorne stands and presents the first video. 

In the video Bucky is lying on a table, strapped down, as Zola and Fenhoff stand beside him. Fenhoff rubs his ring as he steps closer.

"Focus on me, Sergeant Barnes. Focus on my voice."

Bucky blinks slowly, face smoothing out and eyes going glassy.

"Good." Fenhoff undoes the straps and cuffs and slides the IV in his arm out. "Now can you follow me?"

Bucky slides off the table, staggering and listing to his left, the scars around the metal arm raw and new, his torso littered with various other scars. He blinks, looking at the arm with confusion.

"Focus. Focus on me." Bucky's eyes go glassy again as he stares at Fenhoff. "Come with me."

Bucky stumbles after the doctor, the camera changing as they enter the room with the chair, making a chill go up Bucky's spine. There's agents all around, guns in hand, and Bucky's gaze strays.

"Focus," Fenhoff repeats. "Good."

Bucky refocuses on Fenhoff.

"Sit in the chair."

Bucky sits down in the chair, the cuffs snapping over his arms and making him flinch. Panic flickers in his eyes.

"Focus. I need your complete focus."

Bucky takes a deep breath, face smoothing again.

"Thank you. Good. Now, I am going to say some words. When you hear them again, you will remember only this: You are the Winter Soldier. You are a skilled operative. You serve Russia and Hydra. General Lukin is your handler. Do you understand?"

Bucky stares ahead blankly. "Yes."

"Good. The words are in Russian because you are Russian. I will speak them now." The sound cuts off, Fenhoff's mouth not visible on the tape but presumably saying the words. The sound comes back on at the tail end of a question Fenhoff asks.

"Yes," Bucky replies.

"Good. After you remember, you will be addressed as 'soldat' and you will say this: 'Gotov k vypolneniyu.' Ready to comply. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Repeat it for me."

"Gotov k vypolneniyu."

"Good. Very good. Now, I need you to wake up." He snaps his fingers.

Bucky blinks, eyes losing their glassy stare and body tensing. He glances around wildly, breathing picking up. Doctors type into computers and the metal above the chair starts to move with a whir, the halo descending. Bucky feels his heart pound as he watches the video, can almost hear the whirring over his own head, watches as his past self panics, not knowing what is to come. Electricity sparks from the clamps as they lower.

"What the hell is this?" Bucky manages, before the contraption clamps around his face and he starts to scream. 

The video pauses.

"Hypnotism," Hawthorne says. "Dr. Fenhoff was a Russian doctor known for his ability to control men's minds. He was imprisoned in America after using his powers for murder and attempted terrorism, but was recruited through Operation Paperclip along with Arnim Zola, who was responsible for the experimentation Sergeant Barnes suffered both during the war and after. This is how Sergeant Barnes was mind-controlled, by using a set of trigger words implanted under hypnosis. Of course, the audio has been removed to prevent anyone from knowing them. Dr. Jones, who is a neurologist, can explain exactly how they worked."

Dr. Jones takes the stand, and explains much as she had to Bucky when they'd first met, about how the chair causes the seizure and the trigger words take effect, and then the second half of the video is shown. 

The metal releases Bucky as he jerks and breathes harshly, and Lukin walks around the chair as he recites words, the audio cut out. Bucky breathes in the chair and grows stiller, expression settling into blankness. His eyes flick to Lukin and the audio resumes, subtitles on the bottom to translate the Russian.

"Dobroye utro, soldat."  _Good morning, soldier._

"Gotov k vypolneniyu."   _Ready to comply._

Lukin smiles. "Good. What do you remember?"

"I am the Winter Soldier. I am a skilled operative. I serve Russia and Hydra. You are my handler," he recites, voice flat.

"Do you remember anything else?"

His metal finger twitches on the chair and he looks confused.  "I-I don't know." He frowns. "Why can't I remember?"

"You do not need to remember."

"I don't-I don't remember my name." 

"You do not have a name."

He frowns. "Why?"

Lukin hesitates. "You are not human."

He blinks. "What am I?" he questions.

The audio cuts out again.  _Vampire,_ Bucky knows Lukin is saying. Of course they would cut that out of the tape.

He glances around, and the audio returns. "Where am I?"

"You are in Russia. It is 1954."

Bucky-the soldier now, he supposes, seems to consider this, still looking confused. Lukin interjects before he can speak.

"Come. We will get you cleaned up, and then training will begin."

The video stops. Dr. Jones explains how the mind-wiping works, how it removes the connection to long-term episodic memories, how he was basically a blank slate, but how his brain would heal after a while. How they're working on getting the trigger words out. Hawthorne shows the next clip, of when he first started remembering again and they started the torture.

They're walking down a hallway, the soldier's face contemplative.

"Who is Steve?" he asks. Bucky feels a pang in his chest and doesn't want to think about what Steve must look like right now.

Lukin freezes.  _"What?"_

The soldier switches to Russian.  _"I remember a name. Steve. Who is he?"_

_"No one."_

The soldier frowns, stopping in the middle of the hallway. "No, that's-that's not right. He is-he is someone. Who is he?"

Lukin steps forward and hits the soldier across the face, making him stagger. He blinks in confusion as he raises a hand to his reddened cheek, looking stunned and hurt.

_"You will not question me,"_  Lukin growls.

The soldier's expression contorts in anger. "No." He glares at Lukin. "You-you've been lying to me. Something isn't right. I  _knew_ him." 

_"Guards. And get the doctor."_

The guards grab him and the soldier struggles, lashing out with the metal arm and sending them flying. Then Fenhoff appears.

"Stop. Focus on me."

The soldier stops and turns, expression going blank, robotic.

"Good. Focus. Calm. You are calm." The doctor spins his ring.

The soldier's ragged breathing slows, eyes glazing over.

"Good. Now you will follow General Lukin." Lukin starts walking and the soldier follows. They walk into the room with a table and Lukin stops. "Get on the table," Fenhoff instructs.

The soldier complies, lying flat on the table, but panic flickers in his eyes and he jerks.

"Focus. Ignore everything around you."

The soldier relaxes again. Lukin fastens cuffs around his wrist and ankles and inserts an IV, nodding to the doctor.

"Good. Now wake up." The doctor snaps his fingers.

The soldier takes a gasping breath, eyes going wide with panic as he glances around. He pulls at the cuffs and makes a small sound of pain, breathing picking up. 

Lukin steps up. "You will not question me. You were created only to follow orders, nothing else. You do not think for yourself, you do not speak for yourself. You are not human. Whatever memories you have are nothing more than faulty code. You will be corrected for your noncompliance, and then you will be fixed. This is your first lesson."

The soldier's lip trembles and he looks helplessly confused. Lukin pulls out a knife, and Bucky can feel the air in the courtroom thicken with tension.

Lukin drags the silver knife across his chest and he screams. Bucky hears a gasp.

"Say it. Say, 'I am not human. I do not question. I only follow orders.'"

He grits his teeth, expression defiant. _Stupid, but brave,_ Bucky thinks. "No."

The knife comes down again, scoring deep into his side.

"Say it."

His hands curl into fists. "No."

Bucky has to look away as he sees the knife score into his rib, bone flashing white as the soldier screams. 

"I will keep going until you say it."

The soldier stays silent, breathing raggedly. The video pauses, and fast forwards until Lukin is at his feet, his body covered with blood and sobs ripped from his chest, form shaking.

"Stop. Stop, please, make it stop, please-"

"Say it."

He takes a ragged breath, eyes squeezing closed. "I am not human," he rasps. "I do not question. I only follow orders."

_"Good job, soldier."_ Lukin releases the stopper on the IV so the steady dripping becomes a stream. He lets it flow for a moment before stopping it again and sliding the IV out.  _"Now we will fix you,"_ he says.  _"After a while, it seems your programming breaks down. We will have to reboot you every so often. Now, you will follow me to the chair."_ He undoes the cuffs, helping the soldier slide off the table, weak and unsteady, eyes glazed. The soldier follows Lukin down the hallway and into the large room with the chair, sinking into it. Silver cuffs snap around his arms bur he doesn't even flinch. The doctor steps up, spinning his ring.

"Focus. Focus on me." The soldier's eyes flick to his blankly. "Good. You remember the words?"

He nods.

"Good. When you hear them again, you will remember only as before but you will also remember your training and your correction. Now, wake up." The doctor snaps his fingers.

The soldier blinks. His breathing picks up as the chair whirs to life, halo descending. The metal clamps around his face and he screams hoarsely, the video stopping.

Dr. Zahir speaks, about dehumanization and conditioning and how Bucky had been fairly stable at first, basically just a soldier with amnesia, but his recovering memories and tendency to question made them use harsher methods. How even this wasn't enough. The next clip is shown, the first time he'd killed someone for them.

On the screen they drag in a man and shove him to his knees, hands bound behind his back and mouth gagged. Lukin presses a gun into the soldier's hand.

_"Kill him."_

The soldier raises the gun, and then hesitates.  _"Why?"_

_"Soldier, you do not question orders,"_ Lukin says warningly.  _"But this man is an enemy of Russia. You serve Russia."_

The soldier nods. His finger wraps around the trigger and he fires. The man crumples to the ground. The video stops.

"At this point, his questions are still being answered," Dr. Zahir says. "They originally try to treat him like any other operative, telling him that he is Russian and he simply doesn't have memories. When you look at this through that context, it makes perfect sense. He thinks he's doing the right thing, because that's what they told him. He has no reason to doubt, because he doesn't have any contradictory memories. He's simply following orders, and he has no way of knowing that they're the wrong orders. However, as soon as he gets any memories back, any clarity, he immediately resists."

The next video plays.

They bring in another man, unbound. He has blonde hair and blue eyes, and Bucky remembers exactly what happened, the way he'd sparked a memory.  _Steve._ He hadn't known it at the time, but it was because he looked like Steve. 

_"Kill him,"_ Lukin says. The soldier strides forward, quickly knocking aside the man's defenses and wrapping a metal hand around his throat. The man chokes, blue eyes wide and terrified as they meet the soldier's. The soldier hesitates. 

_"Why?"_

_"You do not question me,"_ Lukin bites out.  _"You do not question orders. You will be corrected, but first, kill him."_

The soldier shudders, and hesitates again, eyes fixed on the man with something like horror.

"No."His chest hitches. "No." He releases the man's throat, letting him slide to the ground as he gasps and wheezes, backing away. "No, I-I don't-no-" 

"I think it has been too long between wipes," Zola's voice says from the corner of the room. 

"Indeed. Where is the doctor?"

"He is away at the moment. I shall attempt to summon him as soon as possible. It may be a few days." 

"Thank you, Dr. Zola. If you would prepare the chair, I will take it from here."

"Very well." Zola leaves, the soldier still standing in the middle trembling as he glances around wildly.

_"Soldier. Come with me."_

The soldier's expression shifts to anger. "No," he snarls, lip curled. 

_"Guards."_

Guards swarm him and he begins to fight, snapping necks and crushing throats with the metal arm as he whirls and kicks. Bucky's never seen himself fight before, and it's..terrifying. He doesn't recognize himself. There's the crack of a gun and then he's shot in the leg, sending him crashing to the floor. 

Guards take the opportunity to snap silver cuffs around his wrists, locking them behind his back as they begin to drag him from the room. They drag him to the _correction room,_ Bucky thinks, shoving him face-first against the wall and undoing one cuff at a time to place his wrists into silver cuffs in the wall so his arms are above his head at shoulder width. Agents dig into his thigh, ripping out the bullet as the soldier trembles and gasps. A blindfold is passed up and wound around his eyes and his shirt cut away, the soldier struggling slightly in the cuffs.

_"I have become lax,"_ Lukin says, coiling something in his hand, the tip glinting silver.  _"I have allowed you too much freedom and let you ask questions. It is clear that I have not done enough to ensure your complete compliance. That is my fault, soldier. But do not worry, we will fix this flaw in your programming. There is a Hydra saying that I quite like. It says, 'order comes through pain.' I do not take pleasure in your pain, soldier, but it is necessary. You are too valuable for us to have any doubts about your compliance. Remember, you deserve this."_

Lukin winds up, the whip uncurling and dropping to the floor, and Bucky looks down, clenching his fists as he braces for the sound. Instead, the video stops, and Bucky breathes a sigh of relief that is echoed throughout the courtroom.

There's an oppressive silence. Hawthorne clears his throat. "Three days. He was left there for three days." The video fast-forwards and stops.

The soldier is still in the cuffs, back covered with deep scores and dried blood crusted in streaks down pale skin. He's visibly trembling, face pressed to the wall and weight barely resting on his left leg, cuffs cutting into his wrists as he hangs from them. The door opens and guards enter, undoing the cuffs as he crumples to the ground. They take off the blindfold and Bucky watches himself squint, eyes glazed and body limp as guards haul him up and sling his arms around their shoulders as they drag him from the room. He's set down in the chair and the cuffs snap over his arms, something that seems ridiculous given his semi-conscious state. Someone inserts an IV into his right arm and he relaxes slightly, eyes closing as he slumps back against the chair with a muted sigh. After a minute he seems to revive and opens his eyes, squinting as Lukin, Zola, and Fenhoff talk quietly, just audible in the tape.

"Remember doctor Fenhoff, we need a permanent directive, as you will not always be here and we cannot afford to do this every time. And if we are to use him sparingly over long stretches of time he may have to be passed on to new management."

"I will try my best," the doctor replies. "Remember, the hypnotic state can be broken and fade with time. It is important that the utmost control is exerted to keep him compliant. I am not a fan of violence, but I understand its necessity."

"I agree," Zola interjects. "Given his advanced healing, the effects of the wipes will wear off after a while and his memories will return. It would be prudent to implement wipes every few weeks he is awake with more as needed if he becomes unstable. Perhaps even to simply wipe him each time he comes out of cryofreeze, when he is weak. Also, the more blood he is given, the faster he will heal. You must find a balance between functionality and hunger. "

"Thank you, Dr. Zola. Your work has been invaluable to the project. I do wish you could stay longer."

"As do I, but unfortunately I must keep my cover with the Americans. Hydra is growing within their ranks and around the world. I am grateful to you for sparking the association between Russia and Hydra. I believe we will accomplish great things together."

"As do I. Alright, shall we begin?" Lukin turns, meeting the soldier's eyes.  _"Good morning, soldier._ _Are you ready to comply?"_

The soldier nods heavily, swallowing.  _"Yes."_ His voice is little more than a croak, the barest whisper of air through his lips, and there's something dead behind his eyes.

_"Good. Dr. Fenhoff?"_

The doctor steps forward, spinning his ring.  _"Now, focus on me, soldier. Focus."_

The soldier's eyes glaze over and he looks almost peaceful.

_"Good. Now, you remember the words?"_

_"Yes."_

_"Good. Every time you hear them you will remember as before, but you will also remember all of your training and corrections each time. Each new training and correction between wipes will stay permanently, as well as relevant knowledge about the world and your missions. Only what you need to be functional will stay, nothing else. You will never question orders, or fight back. You will only comply without hesitation. This is all you will know when you hear the words. You will obey whoever says the words. Now, I need you to wake up."_

The doctor snaps his fingers. The soldier blinks awake, staring ahead blankly. The chair whirs over his head but he does not move. He looks dead inside. His sweaty hair just brushes the tops of his ears, only a little longer than Bucky had it during the war, and the scars on his chest stand out starkly. The metal clamps over his unmoving head and he seizes, screaming with a broken voice. The tape stops.

Dr. Zahir clears her throat, and speaks. Bucky feels numb, watching himself be tortured as if from a distance, as if it's not really him. He barely hears Dr. Zahir's words as she says things like  _mind control_ and  _conditioning_ and  _dissociation,_ and he can feel eyes on him, watching him. His head aches and exhaustion drags at him, and all he wants to do is curl up on his couch and never leave again. He doesn't want to have to relive every single thing they'd done to him, to watch himself be broken down to nothing. 

There's a few clips, the beginnings of missions and his mission reports, establishing that he did commit the crimes. Dr. Jones talks next, detailing how they'd tweaked the trigger words on that last session to allow the soldier to gain new knowledge as he went along. Then Hawthorne takes over, outlining the next big event: His escape. When he had fled to New York and crashed in an abandoned building with some hippies. One of them had called in when they heard that Bucky had been found, saying that he'd been trying to get people to listen for years but no one would believe him.

Mark walks up to the stand, almost unrecognizable from his younger self. He's no longer outfitted in torn hippie clothes, but has a suit and tie on, hair short and neat and face lined. 

"Please state your name for the record," Hawthorne instructs.

"Mark Wallburn."

"And can you tell us how you know Sergeant Barnes?"

"Well, me and a group of my friends were squatting in this abandoned building, and one day this guy shows up. Super quiet, doesn't say a word, but I go over and I offer him a cigarette, tell him to join us. He looks terrible, too. Like, dark circles, haunted eyes, ragged hair, hasn't seen a shower in days terrible. I've never seen him around before, so I ask him what he's doing here. Says he's just passing through. I ask his name, says he doesn't have one. So we call him Jim. Tell him as long as he doesn't bring trouble, he's cool. And again, he's silent, just sits there and watches us like he's never seen another human being in his life. Then we start talking about the war in 'Nam, and finally he says something. I don't remember the exact conversation, but he says he's a soldier. Not 'Nam though. I ask him where, says he doesn't know, then says Russia. So, by now all of us are real interested, because there's all the stuff going on with the Red Scare and Communism. Thought he might be a spy, but he said no. Finally comes up that I ask him how long he's been out. He says three days. Doesn't have anywhere to go. So we say he can stay with us, no problem. He tags along when we get food and wash up and panhandle on the streets. Listens to everything we say and doesn't speak unless you ask him a question. Real polite, too. But looks like death itself, I swear. He was so pale I thought he might keel over. So it's..the next night, I think, and we're all sitting around the fire. I guess he reaches over for something and his sleeve pulls up, and there's these scars on his wrist, and I mean...I've never seen scars like that. You don't get those from regular handcuffs. I ask him if he got captured or something, he says yes. Ask if they did something to his left arm, too, because he never uses it, never takes his hand out of his pocket. He says yes again. You can see it, in his eyes. That he's seen some real bad stuff, had something horrible done to him."

Mark pauses. "And then, that night, I guess they came for him. All these policemen come through the doors, only they didn't seem like police. There's a fight, and we see that Jim's got a metal arm. I mean, the whole thing is just metal. And he's terrifying, watching him fight. Never seen anything like it. They start shooting him, first in the leg, but he just...he looks them right in the eye and digs out the bullet himself. Then they shoot him in the shoulder, and you can tell he's down. And they grab him, and he starts screaming. Says he's not going back, that he's an American, that they lied to him. Something about remembering. The police come over, they tell us he escaped from an asylum and that he's dangerous. I said I didn't believe them. This was was too fishy. So the guy threatened me. Said we should forget all about it if we knew what was good for us, and we didn't want to find out what would happen if we didn't. Said no one would believe us anyway. And they're....they're dragging Jim out, and he's crying, keeps saying he's an American, that he's from Brooklyn, that someone is coming for him. Steve, I think."

Mark looks up at Steve. "Oh. I guess..I guess he meant Captain America, but I didn't know that at the time. So they put him in a car and drive away, and that's that. But I can't get over it. I start poking around, asking questions, but no one knows a thing. The police don't exist. There's no record of anything happening. Then I see a picture of Barnes somewhere and I'm like, 'oh my God. That's him.' But of course no one would believe me. Saying Bucky Barnes, who died in 1945, holed up with some hippies for a couple days in the seventies and then got dragged away by nonexistent police? And has a metal arm now? Yeah, I can see why they didn't believe me. So I guess eventually I stopped trying so they didn't throw me in a mental hospital. When I heard the news, that Barnes was alive, that he was the Winter Soldier...I thought, 'good god, what did they do to him.' I mean, there's no way he wanted it. Not the way he was fighting, the things he was screaming. I wish I'd tried harder to make someone listen. I'm sorry I didn't." His eyes flick to Bucky, apologetic.

There's a moment of silence before Hawthorne thanks him and asks him a few questions before letting Dr. Zahir speak. There's another short clip, from when they brought him back to Russia, and Dr. Zahir talks about how they made sure he'd never try to escape again. She talks about learned helplessness, about how he wasn't able to escape even when he was let loose on missions, how his memories of escaping were erased but he still retained the knowledge that if he tried to escape he would be tortured. How it was shown that on his own, he didn't attempt to hurt anyone.

Bucky knows what comes next. Next is the period of time missing from the tapes, the most important time of all. Natalia walks up to the stand, sitting down.

"Please state your name for the record."

Natalia leans forward slightly into the microphone. "Natalia Alianovna Romanova."

 


	21. Chapter 21

Will be abroad for three weeks so probably won't update until then! Thanks for reading:)


	22. Chapter 22

"Natalia Alianovna Romanova," Natalia states. "Natasha Romanoff."

"And how do you know the defendant?"

Natalia hesitates, eyes trained on Bucky. "He trained me."

There's a murmur in the courtroom. 

"Ms. Romanoff, could you describe your time with Sergeant Barnes?"

Natalia nods, taking a breath. "I was ten years old when I first met him, in the Red Room. He was to train me. They always left us alone in the training room. I was afraid of him at first. I'd heard the stories, the people he'd killed. He was what the trainers told us to scare us. 'Be good or the Winter Soldier will come for you.'" She pauses, smiling slightly. "But he wasn't like that at all. He taught me how to fight, even though I was small, but he wasn't like the other trainers. He was...kind. Patient. Gentle. He never hurt me, not once. If I got hurt during training, he comforted me. He told me it was wrong for me to be hurt. He didn't get angry with me, even when I failed. He just told me how to do better. He answered all my questions, as best he could. He didn't seem to know much, but he always tried. I gave him a name, because he said he didn't have one. He said it had to be our secret, or they would correct us both." 

Natalia's lips press together. "I was a child, and though I knew something was wrong I did not realize what was really happening. I didn't know what they were doing to him. All I knew was that every week they'd take him away, and he came back different. Colder. Sometimes he'd forget things we talked about, or he wouldn't respond at all. I asked him once, what happened to him every week, and he said they fixed him. We trained for months, and then did a mission together, and then he was put into cryofreeze. Over the years, whenever they'd wake him up to do a mission, they'd give him time to train with me."

She looks down. "I loved him. He was like a parent to me. And I think he loved me back, as much as he could. But they had given him too much freedom. Like I said, they left us alone to train. If they had known the things we said, the way he acted..." She shakes her head. "He was becoming too human, even though they wiped his memories and put him under the triggers every single week. When I was eighteen, I went through graduation, but I tried to fail. I knew what would happen if I graduated. They tried to take me, but he stepped in to protect me. They realized how close we'd become, that he was willing to go against them for me, so they took him away. He fought, we both did, but they shot him. I didn't know what had happened to him at the time, but now I know that they wiped his memory of the whole time. Everything. Every moment we had, gone, because I had made him human, and that was a risk they couldn't take. As soon as I graduated I looked for him, but I never found him. It was like he didn't exist. And I found out who he was. One look in a history book and there was the Winter Soldier staring up at me. I couldn't believe it. That's when I knew they must have done something to him. Something terrible. But I couldn't tell anyone. Who would believe me anyway? I thought maybe it was the imagination of a little girl. The Red Room had played with my mind, maybe he wasn't real. Maybe he wasn't who I thought he was. So eventually, I stopped looking for him."

She takes a breath. "And then he shot me, five years ago. I was escorting a nuclear engineer out of Iran, he shot out my tires and we went over a cliff. I was covering my engineer, so he shot him, straight through me. I called out to him, but he just turned away. I didn't know then that he had no idea who I was, that he didn't remember me, but I knew he was real. So I searched again, but still, nothing. There were rumors, hits, but he was like a ghost. And then he was there, in DC. He shot Nick Fury. We fought on the causeway, and he shot me again. And Captain Rogers confirmed it. The Winter Soldier was James Barnes. I'd known, all along, and I never told anyone. I never told Steve that his friend wasn't dead, I'd never told anyone that maybe there was a person inside the Winter Soldier, a good person. So the Helicarriers came down, and Barnes was in the wind. I didn't look for him. Then I heard that he'd come in, that he was remembering. I came back, and I didn't know what I'd find. Would he be the only person I loved as a child, or the stone-cold killer who shot me? But I stepped through the doors, and it was him. He remembered me. He told me what they'd done to him. And I swore I'd help him whatever it took. He saved me, as a child. If it weren't for him, I don't know who I'd be. Twisted, probably, like the rest of the girls in the Red Room. Maybe dead. He was what drove me to find my own redemption, to turn my back on the KGB and join Shield. Now it's my turn to help him."

She looks at Bucky, her emotions uncharacteristically on display for all to see. Bucky blinks away tears and raises a hand, making a cross over his heart. _Thank you,_ he thinks. Natalia repeats the motion, eyes soft, and he knows she understands.

Bharara moves to cross-examine her, and Bucky would be worried but he knows Natalia isn't going to break her composure under some lawyer. Bharara steps up, looking musing.

"Now, Ms. Romanoff, you have quite the colorful history yourself. You were an assassin for the KGB for years, is that right?"

"Yes. That is correct."

"You're skilled in deception, and you used to be an enemy of this country. Is it reasonable to expect your words to be taken truthfully?"

"No, I don't expect you to believe me," Natalia says, calm as ever. "I know I have acted both for and against this country, but that has no bearing on this case. I believe James is the one on trial, not me."

"Indeed. But you two seem to have been close, if what you say is true. You were a child, and he was an adult. Is it possible that he manipulated you into feeling sympathy for him?"

Natalia raises an eyebrow. "Manipulated? The Winter Soldier does not manipulate. He simply kills you. And sympathy? He didn't have any concept of sympathy. He didn't think he was human. He told me he was a machine that the Russians created. It was I who started our relationship. He never would have said anything unless I asked questions. He was just there to train me, but well..." She smirks. "I was a child. Training for hours on end was boring, and he was the only one I had to talk to."

"So you were isolated from all others, and made to depend solely on him for companionship?"

"Companionship?" Natalia snorts. "If they thought we were companionable at all they would have burned it out of his head so fast. They did, in fact. They took everything away in punishment for him forming any sort of emotional attachment. And yes, of course I was isolated from all others. It was the Red Room. They handcuffed little girls to beds and made them kill each other. He was much better company. But I only saw him sparingly over the years. Sometimes for no more than a week at a time."

Bharara seems to think. "And you said he was...kind? That he acted human?"

"Yes."

"And he was given full control over your training?"

Natalia narrows her eyes. "Yes."

"That doesn't seem like someone who's being forced against their will. Do you feel that he was of sound mind?"

Natalia stares, then composes herself. "Sound mind? He didn't know his own name. He didn't know that he was a person. He forgot things. Sometimes, after a wipe, he'd go unresponsive. Would stare into nothing. I never told the trainers. He referred to having 1200 volts shot through his brain every week as "fixing" him. Yes, he was in charge of my training, but that was nothing. He was still a prisoner, just being made to train other prisoners. He started to become human because he had months of interactions with me that stayed every time they wiped him. Because he's a good person, at heart. He never wanted to hurt anyone, but he had no choice. When given that small amount of choice, when given the freedom to train me,  _that_ showed who he really was, because even brainwashed and mind-controlled he was the kindest person I've ever met. And that scared them, it scared the Russians and it scared Hydra, so they burned it out of his mind. Because the Winter Soldier doesn't _care._ He isn't  _nice._ He's a machine, and machines don't feel. But James Barnes? He feels. He takes scared little girls and he hugs them and tells them no one should ever hurt them, and he steps in front of them and takes a bullet for them without even questioning why."

A stunned silence falls over the courtroom. Bharara eventually clears his throat.

"I have no further questions."

The judge looks at the clock, and then taps her gavel. "Very well. Court is dismissed for the day."

***

Bucky is thoroughly exhausted by the time he gets back to the Tower. It's only five o'clock, but the day had felt like a lifetime, and he knows it's only going to get worse. The Americans were worse than the Russians, and soon he'll have to testify. But he can't worry about that now. 

He trudges into the bathroom, stripping off his constricting clothes and turning the shower to its hottest setting, ducking under the spray with a sigh. Surprisingly, watching the tapes hadn't been as bad as he thought it would be. He'd distanced himself from them, and it hadn't felt like watching himself. He knows Dr. Zahir would tell him he needs to connect, but he'd rather wait until after the trial when he can have a breakdown in peace. If not feeling them is what it takes to get through this trial, then it's what he'll do.

He showers and then dresses in soft pants and a shirt, padding out into the living room to find Steve already on the couch. Bucky grabs a blanket and wraps himself in it before flopping down with his head in Steve's lap, uncaring of his damp hair. Steve strokes a hand over his head gently and Bucky melts into the touch, eyes closing as he sighs and snuggles closer. He hears Natalia's even footsteps and works a hand out from the blanket, feeling her slim one slip into his.

"Thank you," he says, muffled by Steve's lap. 

She kisses the back of his hand before settling on the floor with her back to his hip. Bucky hears Sam moving around in the kitchen, presumably cooking food, and lets his anxiety drain away as Steve's hand keeps moving over his hair, breathing even and deep above him.

***

The second day starts much the same as the first. Bucky dresses in a white shirt and blue slacks and drinks coffee while Steve surreptitiously scrolls through the news, face less grim than before. Bucky hooks his chin over Steve's shoulder to read it and Steve lets him, taking a sip of his own coffee.

 _James Barnes: Victim,_ a headline proclaims. There's no question mark. 

_Winter Soldier trial unleashing wave of sympathy for Barnes_

_#SaveBucky_

_#BuckyBarnesisavictim_

_James Barnes: World's Longest Serving POW_

Bucky blinks in surprise. 

"Told you people would change their minds," Steve says, reading his mind.

"But...how?"

"After the evidence yesterday? They'd have to be crazy to think you're guilty."

"I second that," Sam juts in. "I mean, we barely skimmed the surface and it was enough to make anyone horrified. I think the trial is just a formality at this point."

Bucky frowns. He'd always thought it would at least be a close decision, and had presumed he'd be found guilty. He feels a spark of hope. Maybe Steve and Sam are right. Maybe they'll declare him not guilty and then...and then he's free. He can do whatever he wants. The thought is staggering.  _Free._ He's not sure what it means, anymore.

***

The judge enters and the murmuring in the courtroom dies away as they rise before being seated again.

"Good morning. Let us begin." The judge pauses and then looks at Bucky. "Oh, and Mr. Barnes, if you need to excuse yourself at any point, feel free to do so."

Bucky blinks. It seems the judge has softened towards him. He nods. "Thank you, your Honor."

The day begins.

Hawthorne starts by saying that Bucky was transferred to the American branch of Hydra in 1991, but that due to tense relations between the Russian and Hydra branches they didn't give them the trigger words. But first, a brief digression, he says. Before they abandon the trigger words, he wants to show the effect they have on Bucky's mind even when out from Hydra's control. He plays the tape of the first trigger session, Dr. Jones taking the stand and Bucky's brainwaves shown in a small box at the top of the screen.

On the screen Bucky is sitting on the couch, leg bouncing slightly and expression creased with anxiety. Dr. Zahir walks in, taking the chair opposite him.

"Ready?"

 Bucky nods wordlessly.

"Okay, if you could state your name and date of birth."

"James Buchanan Barnes. March 10, 1917," he recites. 

She nods. "And your affiliation with Hydra?"

"Former. Not by choice."

"Okay. Do you want to hurt anyone?"

"Besides Hydra? No."

"Can you tell me who Steve Rogers is and his relation to you?"

Bucky smiles slightly. "Steve's just an idiot kid from Brooklyn who wanted to join the Army so bad he let scientists experiment on him. He's Captain America. To me? My friend, since I was six years old. The guy I followed back into a war just to try and keep him safe."

"Alright. That's it. Good luck." Dr. Zahir stands up and leaves the room, Steve replacing her. He stands in front of Bucky, only his back visible on the camera.

"Ready?"

Bucky nods. "See you on the other side." He takes a deep breath, gripping the edge of the couch on either side of his legs.

Steve opens the book and takes a step to Bucky's right as the sound cuts out. The brainwaves at the top spike suddenly.

Bucky shudders. Steve takes another step, out of his line of sight.

Bucky grits his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut, expression tight with pain.

Steve takes another step. Bucky's fingers dig into the edge of the couch and his head snaps forward, shoulders hunching and straining.

Steve is behind his back now, rounding the corner of the couch. Bucky visibly clenches his teeth, breath coming in pants as his eyes fly open, wide and sightless. His brainwaves are spiking wildly.

Steve is stepping around him, towards the front. Bucky pants and stares ahead fixedly, body trembling.

Another word, another step. Bucky's head twitches to the side with a jerking motion and his chin trembles. 

He exhales sharply before inhaling again. His brainwaves start to slow and even out.

Steve steps around to the front. Bucky's body gives one last shudder and his eyes go dead and blank.

One last step, and Bucky- _the soldier's_ breathing slows and evens out as he goes still. His brainwaves are small and even.

Steve stops in front of him and closes the book. The soldier's eyes flick to him. The audio comes back. 

 _"Good morning, soldier,"_ Steve says in accented Russian.

 _"Ready to comply,"_ the soldier responds.

Steve turns and gives a thumbs up towards the camera and the glass. The door opens and Dr. Zahir steps through, taking a seat in the chair opposite him. 

"Good morning," she says. "Do you know who I am?"

"No." The soldier's voice is flat, eyes dead.

"My name is Dr. Zahir. I'm a psychologist. I'm going to ask you a few questions. Please respond honestly. It's okay if you don't know the answer. Do you understand?"

"Yes." 

"Okay, can you tell me your name and date of birth?"

"I don't have a name."

"Okay. What is your affiliation with Hydra?"

"I serve Hydra. Hydra created me." His expression doesn't shift. It's eerie, watching himself. 

"And is that your choice?"

The soldier stares at her blankly.

"Do you want to serve Hydra?" Dr. Zahir presses.

The soldier blinks. "I don't have wants."

"Alright. Let me ask you this. Why do you serve Hydra?"

The soldier's eyes move slightly, as if searching. "Hydra created me," he repeats tonelessly. "I serve Hydra."

"Yes, but why?"

"I..." He looks slightly confused. "I don't...question," he tries. "Hydra created me." He frowns, eyes darting to the side and down. His brainwaves jump slightly. "Hydra is...good. It is...giving the world the freedom it deserves. I do my part."

Dr. Zahir studies him. "You do your part?"

"Yes."

"And you don't question it."

"No."

"Why not?"

Bucky sees his finger twitch. "I am not human. I don't question. I only follow orders."

"What happens if you do question? Or if you don't follow orders?"

His finger twitches again. "Correction."

Dr. Zahir takes a deep breath. "And what does correction mean?"

The soldier's hand spasms slightly and his brainwaves spike briefly. "Pain."

She nods. "Okay. Next question. Do you want to hurt anyone?"

"I don't have wants."

She pauses. "What would make you hurt someone?"

"Orders. Mission."

"Nothing else? You wouldn't hurt anyone unless you were ordered to?"

"No."

She nods. "Have you ever tried to hurt Hydra?"

His hand clenches around the edge of the couch. "I am not allowed to attack Hydra."

"But have you ever tried?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

His hand clenches tighter, knuckles whitening, but his expression does not change. "I was malfunctioning."

"What does that mean?"

"I...." He pauses for a moment. "There is...a flaw in my programming," he says. "They fix me."

"And how do they fix you?"

"Corrections. The chair." 

"Next question. Can you tell me who Steve Rogers is and his relation to you?"

"I...don't know," he replies, but then frowns slightly, blinking. There's a short spike in his brainwaves. He twitches slightly, looking confused, before his expression flattens again.

"Do you know who he is?" Dr. Zahir asks, gesturing to Steve, who stands a few feet away.

"Handler," the soldier responds. But he frowns again, eyes going glassy and distant as he stares at Steve, brainwaves picking up speed.

"Bucky?" Steve questions.

The soldier flinches. "Who the  _hell_ is Bucky?" he snarls, brainwaves spiking dramatically. His breath hitches, eyes flickering with panic before he shudders, head twitching to the side before his breathing evens out and his expression goes blank again. The brainwaves drop back down to small humps.

Dr. Zahir leans forward slightly and points to Steve.

"This is Steve. It looks like you had a reaction to him. Do you remember him?"

Terror flashes across the soldier's expression and there's a flare of brainwaves. "No," he chokes out. "No, I don't, I don't, please, I don't know-"

Dr. Zahir raises her hands in a calming motion. "It's okay. No one's going to hurt you."

The soldier takes a shuddering breath and goes still again, brainwaves smoothing out.

"I'm going to leave you with Steve," Dr. Zahir says carefully. "He's just going to talk to you and stay here for a while. I'm going to send someone else in, too. Nothing's going to happen to you. They just want to talk."

The soldier stares ahead blankly. Dr. Zahir gets up and leaves the room as Sam comes in and joins Steve as he sits down across from the soldier.

"Hey. You know who I am?" Sam asks.

"No." The soldier's voice is flat and clipped again.

He nods. "I'm Sam. We're actually friends, but you probably don't remember that. Before that, you tried to kill me, twice. You remember that?"

"No." 

"You're in Avengers Tower," Steve says. "You escaped from Hydra and came to us. Right now you're under the influence of trigger words that they put in your mind. We're just going to sit with you until they wear off."

The soldier frowns, looking confused.

"I'm Steve," Steve continues. "You've known me your whole life. I'm your friend. Hydra wiped your memories and made you fight me, but you've regained them over the past few weeks. Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky. You were born on March 10, 1917. You were a Sergeant in the US Army before Hydra captured you and made you into the Winter Soldier."

The soldier's eyes dart to the side and he looks panicked again. His brainwaves spike and get faster, sharp and jagged. "No," he chokes out. "No, I-" He presses a hand to his temple, gritting his teeth. "Stop." His breath hitches. "Stop."

Steve and Sam fall silent. The soldier squeezes his eyes shut, hand falling from his head to clutch his thigh. He shakes his head like a dog shedding water, fingers digging into his leg as he breathes in harsh pants, brainwaves still distressed.

With a shudder the brainwaves dip and his eyes fly open as he looks between Steve and Sam.

"Bucky?" 

His metal arm whirs as he clenches the hand into a fist. "Who..the hell..is Bucky?" he grinds out. His eyes are wide and slightly crazed.

Steve shifts. "That's you."

The soldier squints at Steve. "You're...Steve."

"Yeah."

The soldier blinks. "Mission."

Sam stiffens. "What mission?"

He seems to search for the answer. "Protect."

They both relax. "Yeah. That's the mission you gave yourself, when we first found you."

The soldier digs his fingers into his thigh again, gritting his teeth as his brainwaves spike. He shakes his head again. His metal arm whirs and recalibrates, plates shifting.

"You're alright, Barnes. Just take it easy," Sam intones calmly. "We've got all day. No rush."

"Shut the  _fuck_ up," the soldier snaps. He blinks, looking startled, staring at Sam owlishly. 

"Ah. There you are. My favorite asshole."

The soldier blinks again before his brainwaves spike violently again and he hunches over, pressing his hand to his head and squeezing his eyes shut as he breathes raggedly. Beads of sweat are visible on his skin and he's shaking slightly, brainwaves maintaining their jagged peaks and valleys.

 _"We are not in Russia?"_ he grits out in Russian.

"He asked, 'we are not in Russia?'" Jarvis says.

The soldier lunges to his feet, grabbing Steve and shoving him in the corner of the room, taking a defensive stance in front of him as he looks around wildly. Sam is frozen in his seat, and Steve is similarly frozen in the corner.

"Buck," he says cautiously.

The soldier flinches but his focus never wavers from its scan of the room. His brainwaves have dipped.

Steve grimaces. "Buck, it's just Jarvis. He's a computer. He's an AI. I'm sorry, we should have warned you first."

"A computer," the soldier repeats flatly. 

"Yeah. And to answer your previous question, no, we're not in Russia. We're in America. New York City."

"Not Hydra?"

"No. Not Hydra."

The brainwaves slow and the soldier relaxes from his defensive stance, walking back over to the couch and sitting down as before. Steve cautiously follows, sinking back down into his chair facing the soldier as Sam exhales in relief.

"Why'd you grab Steve?" Sam asks.

The soldier raises an eyebrow slightly. "Protect." 

Sam nods. "Right. And you know we're not Hydra. That a good thing, to you?"

The soldier blinks. "I...don't know." His brainwaves spike again. He clenches his fist, eyes glinting with anger. "Yes. Yes, I-" He cuts off, shaking his head again. "I don't-"

His brainwaves are erratic, jumping between highs and lows. "No," he mutters. "No, no no no no no-"

His right hand shakes as he presses it to his head. He shudders again, eyes dilated and glazed. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple and his breaths come harshly as the brainwaves continue to jump.

He makes a sound low in his throat, like a whine, looking pained.

"Hey Barnes, you wanna try and tell us what's going on in your head?" Sam asks.

"You think I fucking know?" he snarls, shaking, hands balling into fists at his side. His metal arm whirs. He twitches, head jerking to the left before angling down slightly, brainwaves suddenly dropping as his expression goes blank and his eyes fill with chilling rage. He narrows his eyes at Sam, lip curling.

Steve raises a hand in front of Sam _._ "Bucky."

He twitches again and then lunges, aiming for Steve's throat with his metal hand. 

The soldier's metal hand wraps around Steve's throat but he doesn't squeeze, shaking and gasping as his brainwaves go erratic and his eyes fill with horror.

"Sorry, I'm sorry," he chokes out. "Fuck-goddamn-"

He wrenches his hand away and stumbles backwards, sitting down heavily on the couch. He shakes his head again and shudders.

"It's okay," Steve says slowly, he and Sam watching him warily. 

"No," he grits out. "No, I-no-"

He cuts off with a gasp as there's another burst of brainwaves, curling in on himself as he presses a hand to his forehead, metal hand digging into the edge of the couch cushion. His whole body trembles, ragged breaths punched from his chest.  

A minute passes. He digs his fingers into his scalp, face lined with pain.

"Make it stop," he chokes out. 

"Hey, we're right here," Sam says. "You can do this."

He moves his metal hand to his thigh, digging his fingers in.

"Fuck....off," he pants out. He shudders again and digs his fingers in harder.

"Fuck," he gasps. 

The brainwaves seem to reach a crescendo and Bucky gasps as they suddenly drop down to a normal level, his body jolting slightly. His eyes fly open and he looks around, taking in his surroundings before slumping and exhaling. His breaths even out and the brainwaves continue, steady and slow.

"Steve," he slurs, relief and exhaustion written in every line of his face.

"Buck?" Steve sounds hopeful.

Bucky starts to nod but winces. "Yeah," he croaks. "It's me."

They both exhale in relief. 

"Welcome back," Sam says.

"How are you feeling?" Steve asks.

"Tired. Head hurts." His eyes droop and his body still trembles faintly, soaked with sweat.

"Good for the post-assessment?"

"Yeah."

Dr. Zahir steps into the room, Steve and Sam exiting. She sits down across from him and he straightens up slightly, blinking.

"Name and date of birth?" she asks.

"James Buchanan Barnes. March 10, 1917."

"Affiliation with Hydra?"

"Former. Not by choice."

"Do you want to hurt anyone?"

"No."

"Who is Steve Rogers, and what is his relation to you?"

"The idiot who almost let me strangle him. Captain America. Friend."

Dr. Zahir smiles. "Welcome back."

He gives her a halfhearted smile in reply.

"I want to talk to you about this," she continues, "but you look like you're going to fall over. Get some rest and then we'll debrief afterwards."

He nods slightly. "Thanks."

The video stops. Dr. Jones speaks about the brainwaves and explains what they mean, and then talks about the progress that's been made.

"This is one of our recent sessions," she says, as a video comes up. Bucky is sitting on the couch, and Steve starts to trigger him as the sound cuts out. Bucky twitches and breathes, eyes glazing over as Steve walks around him, but the process is much less disturbing and his brain waves don't spike as much. Eventually Steve stops, closing the book, and the sound returns.

_"Good morning, soldier."_

_"Ready to comply."_

Steve leaves and Natalia enters, plopping down on the couch next to the soldier and turning to face him before drawing her legs up so she's sitting crosslegged. She pats the couch in front of her.

_"Sit."_

The soldier shifts to mirror her position so they are sitting facing each other with only a small space between their crossed legs. 

"Your name is James," Natalia says. "I need you to wake up."

The soldier looks confused, brain waves holding steady.  _"I am awake."_

Natalia reaches out and taps the soldier's temple as he holds still, eyes tracking the movement. "No. In here. I will wait until you do." She reaches in her pocket and pulls out a piece of paper, slim fingers beginning to fold it as the soldier watches. "You have a record to beat, James. If you lose, I get to braid your hair, and you have to wear it the whole day. If you beat it, you get to braid mine. We shook on it, remember?"

The soldier shakes his head, but there is a spike in his brainwaves. Natalia smirks.

"Well, it's looking more and more like I'm going to win." She finishes folding the paper into an airplane. "Only two minutes left." She holds the airplane aloft and then throws it, hitting the soldier in the face. He blinks, expression bemused, before his brow furrows and his face seems to change, softening from its rigid lines. His brain waves spike and then settle at a normal level.

"Seriously? What is it with you and throwing things at me?"

Natalia laughs. "It works, doesn't it?"

Bucky rolls his eyes and picks up the plane, throwing it back gently so it bounces off Natalia's forehead. "Well, I win, so..."

The video stops.

"As you can see, the process is getting easier every time," Dr. Jones says. "The trigger words are losing their effects. They no longer cause a partial seizure, and instead cause a brief dissociative state that quickly fades without any damage to Sergeant Barnes' brain. At this point, I would say that Hydra is unable to truly control his mind any longer, so any danger in them having the trigger words has passed."

 _I'm free,_ Bucky thinks. Or at least free in the way that matters.

"Now, continuing on," Hawthorne says. "Sergeant Barnes was transferred to the American branch of Hydra under Alexander Pierce after the fall of the Soviet Union."

Bucky feels his stomach drop. The Russian tapes, he could do. There was torture, but it was straightforward. It doesn't bother him as much. But his time in America...

He swallows and steels himself as Hawthorne begins. 

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was almost finished before I left and I had a couple free hours this morning so here you go!


	23. Chapter 23

"Without the trigger words, Hydra had to resort to other measures to ensure Sergeant Barnes' continued compliance," Hawthorne is saying. "The first mission he was sent on was to kill Peggy Carter, the founder of Shield. As we can all surmise from her being alive, he failed. Agent Carter originally filed a report and insisted that her would-be assassin was Barnes, but DNA evidence supposedly confirmed that it was someone else who happened to look like him. Hydra had agents inside the police report, and the whole incident was twisted and swept under the rug. The tape confirms how this happened, and how Sergeant Barnes continued to fight whenever possible."

The tape plays, showing the bank vault with the chair sitting menacingly inside. There's commotion and movement and then agents appear, dragging the soldier's body with them and dropping him in the chair. He's covered in blood, still trickling sluggishly from a slash on his neck, and his head lolls limply on the headrest as his eyes flutter weakly, black paint still smeared around them. Glasses inserts an IV into his hand and then he and Bowtie begin to strip away the soldier's tac jacket before wrapping bandages around his throat. The soldier seems to come back to awareness eventually, blinking and looking down at himself.

Pierce enters the room, the side of his face just barely visible in the camera and tight with anger. He stops in front of the soldier.

"So, apparently Peggy Carter just called the authorities about an attempted murder in her home. Both her and her husband are alive and uninjured and meanwhile I've got the Winter Soldier bleeding everywhere. What the hell happened?"

The soldier blinks slowly, brow creasing. "Mission failure. Identity compromised."

Pierce backhands him across the face, snapping the soldier's head to the side, and Bucky barely suppresses a flinch. "I know that," Pierce says harshly. "What I want to know is why. You've never failed a mission before."

"I-" the soldier blinks, looking confused. "She surprised me. She was skilled. There was a witness. The mission was compromised."

"You don't get surprised."

"I..." He bites his lip. "I knew her."

Pierce stiffens. "Wait, you said your identity was compromised. Did she get a look at your face?"

"Yes, I-she called me-" the soldier frowns. "She called me James."

"She was mistaken," Pierce says smoothly, but the soldier looks up, meeting Pierce's eyes as something like anger sparks in his own.

"No. You-you're lying. I knew her. You-this is wrong. You didn't say the words. You aren't my handler. Who are you? Where am I?" 

"Stand down, soldier. I am your handler. The Russians did not give us the words because they resent us, but it doesn't matter. You will not question me."

The soldier surges to his feet, guns clicking as the guards in the room train them on him, Pierce taking a step back.

"No," the soldier snarls. His hands clench into fists and his body trembles, eyes wild.

"Restrain him," Pierce says. "We need a different strategy. Wipes alone won't work if we don't have the words." He pinches the bridge of his nose. "I am not the biggest fan of violence but I don't see another way. Watch the Russian tapes, or come up with something new. I don't care. Just do whatever you need to until he breaks, until he learns his lesson, and then call me. I'm going to try and fix this mess." With that he turns and exits the room, more agents pouring in and surrounding the soldier. The soldier narrows his eyes and then springs into action, taking down five agents with snapped necks before he's shot three times and he goes down. Agents swarm him and hold him down, locking cuffs around his wrists and ankles as he struggles and screams. Bucky looks down, feeling sick. His hands clench into fists in his lap as he hears them drag him away, the slam of the door to the cell making him flinch. The video stops.

Hawthorne clears his throat. "This is three days later." He plays the video as Bucky looks up.

The door to the cell opens and agents drag the soldier out, black fabric wound around his eyes and his mask in place. They drop him carelessly into the chair, having to grab him when he starts to slip off. The cuffs snap around his arms, keeping him in place. Someone takes the blindfold off, the soldier squinting, the black paint around his eyes smeared and cut by tracks of tears and sweat. The mask comes off next and he takes a rasping breath, looking barely conscious. Pierce steps forward from the corner of the room, stopping to the soldier's right and threading a hand through his hair before yanking, forcing his head up.

"Look at me."

The soldier's eyes find Pierce's hazily.

"I am your handler. You will not question me. You will follow orders and nothing else. If you don't I will have to hurt you, and I don't want to do that. Understood?"

The soldier blinks slowly, eyes glazed. It's obvious he's barely cognizant. Pierce shakes the soldier's head slightly.

"You will respond when spoken to. Understood?"

"Yes," the soldier whispers hoarsely.

"Good. You see, I don't like violence, but I realize its necessity. Hydra is trying to make the world a safer place, and when you disobey orders you threaten that. I'm the good guy here. Don't make me have to hurt you to ensure you do your part. Understood?"

"Yes." 

"Good."

The video suddenly cuts out.

"This part was missing," Hawthorne notes. "It might have been a power failure, or something." Bucky knows better. It's where Pierce had fed him. They obviously wanted to erase anything obvious about him being a vampire.

The video comes back on, Pierce now standing in front of the soldier.

"Now, I've fixed the mess you made. To kill Carter now would bring suspicion, but she's no longer a threat. We have police officers embedded in the force, and they're making sure there's no evidence of you. The blood and fingerprints will come up as someone who bears a passing resemblance to you, a man with a grudge against Shield. And even if she keeps digging as before, there's no evidence that the Starks' death was anything but an accident. Carter should be retiring soon anyway. She's no longer the agent she once was. So, that's handled. You're to be put into cryofreeze until your next mission, in which I expect nothing but success." Pierce nods to the techs. "Wipe him."

The techs type into the computers and the halo whirs and spins above the soldier's head, his breaths picking up as metal clamps around his face and he begins to scream. The video fasts forwards until it releases him, the soldier jerking and gasping. His breaths slow and his eyes flick to Pierce.

"Soldier?"

 _"Ready to comply,"_ he says in subtitled Russian.

Pierce nods. "Good." He turns to the techs. "Prep him for cryo." 

He turns and leaves the room as the techs approach, gently peeling the bloody bandage away from his throat, the wound appearing healed into a scar. They check his legs next, pulling up his pant legs to reveal deep bruising.

"Can you stand?" Bowtie murmurs to him. "We should get you cleaned up."

"Yes." The techs release the cuffs and he pushes himself out of the chair, gritting his teeth. The techs put their arms around him, helping him as he stumbles forward stiffly. Guards move forward to grab him but the techs glare, grips tightening on the soldier.

"We've got this from here," Bowtie says shortly. "I think you've done quite enough."

The video stops. Bucky unclenches his fists slightly, right palm burning from where his fingernails had cut into the skin. Everything feels numb. His throat is dry. The echo of the chair whirs in his ears. 

Hawthorne talks about brainwashing, and how Pierce told the soldier that Hydra was doing good, and Dr. Zahir takes the stand and adds to the analysis.

"As you can see, he was in an altered state of mind due to the torture and physical injury, and therefore susceptible to brainwashing," she says. "The presentation of someone-here, Pierce-as the 'good guy' and the torture as the fault of the victim are all textbook manipulation and abuse. The victim begins to think they deserve the abuse, and are eager to please their abuser, who has convinced them of their goodness and offered them a special relationship. You heard the words Pierce used. 'Don't  _make_ me have to hurt you.' This puts the blame squarely on the victim-Sergeant Barnes-and offers no room for moral reasoning. Deprived of memory and autonomy, Hydra and Pierce were the only people Sergeant Barnes knew, and they used this to manipulate and abuse him into doing their will. To blame him for falling victim to this would be akin to blaming every woman who's ever been in an abusive relationship, and to an even greater degree."

Bucky's nails bite into his hand again. She makes it sound like Bucky is some sort of abuse victim, like one of those women he'd seen in the forties who covered bruises with makeup and wrapped scarves too tightly around their throats. He'd helped some of them, he thinks, if he's remembering correctly. He'd given money where he could, offered a place to stay, offered to beat up whatever guy did it to them. He knew it wasn't their fault. Of course he knew-knows that. But he's not them. They never murdered anyone because their husbands told them to, never lost their basic humanity. He's not a victim, he's a murderer. 

Hawthorne is speaking, and another video comes up. The soldier stumbles in, and Bucky feels nausea rise as he sees the burns covering his right side. He knows exactly what happens here. 

The techs gape at him and quickly sit him down in the chair, inserting the IV. Bucky blinks at the extent of the burns on his past self, not having realized before how bad they were. His whole side from shoulder to thigh is nothing but pieces of black fabric melted into burned skin, the burns deep and raw and horrifying to look at, and the soldier's eyes look glazed with pain.

Rumlow strides into the room, making Bucky's stomach clench. His face looks the same as it does in his dreams, eyes hard and cold.

He glares at the techs. "No. Take that out." His voice is the same, too. 

"But he's injured-"

"I don't care. He's not going to die, is he?"

"Well, no-"

"Then take it out. He needs to learn a lesson."

The techs reluctantly slide the IV out, the soldier visibly gritting his teeth.

"Leave," Rumlow says to the guards, grabbing the soldier's arm and tugging him up, shoving him towards the correction cell.

"But-" one protests.

"Leave."

The guards file out and Rumlow shoves the soldier into the cell, the door slamming behind them and making Bucky flinch. His vision tunnels and the courtroom fades. He can picture what happens next, can hear Rumlow's voice echoing in his ears. 

_"You did that on purpose! You made me look like an idiot! You questioned me, you humiliated me in front of everyone. I was supposed to prove my worth to Pierce and you ruined it! You're never going to do this again...Never. You'll fucking...listen...to...me...never question me...ever again!"_

There's the sound of the cell door opening and Bucky looks up at the screen, seeing Rumlow stride out of the cell.

"He's all yours."

The techs rush in, coming out a few moments later with the soldier draped between them. The vault is empty, and the techs deposit the soldier in the chair but don't snap the cuffs over his arms.

"I'm sorry, but we need to get your jacket off and all the pieces out before we can let the burns heal," Bowtie says.

The soldier doesn't respond, staring ahead blankly. His eyes look dead. The techs begin to carefully undo his jacket and slide it off, pieces of it ripping away from the burned flesh but the soldier not even flinching, only blinking exactly once as the right side comes away with a sickening sound, pieces of burned flesh clinging to the jacket. There are still pieces of melted fabric embedded in the soldier's arm and side, and there are distinctive bruises on his ribs. Glasses crosses himself, looking ill. Bowtie takes a pair of scissors, beginning to cut away the fabric on the soldier's thigh before withdrawing tweezers and starting to extract the melted pieces of fabric embedded into the flesh. The soldier doesn't even twitch, just keeps staring ahead. Bucky doesn't want to be here anymore. He doesn't want to watch this. He just wants to go home.

He vaguely sees the video stop, and Hawthorne speak, but he doesn't hear a single word. After a minute there is another video, one that sparks even worse memories.

The soldier is sparring, moving with liquid grace. An agent jams a stun baton into his side and he grunts, staggering slightly for a moment. Another agent takes the opportunity to wrap an arm around his neck from behind but the soldier moves suddenly, throwing the agent off to hit the wall and crumple to the floor. He turns and his eyes are wide with panic, whites showing as he lashes out against the agents who attempt to subdue him, no longer holding back as he crushes ribs and snaps necks.

"Stand down!"

The agents are panicking now, yelling and screaming as the soldier tears through them. Guards with guns aim at him and a bullet hits his thigh but he doesn't even falter, crazed eyes landing on Rumlow. He lunges towards him with a scream but another bullet lodges in his other thigh and he crashes to the floor, agents rushing to restrain him. He thrashes, screaming, and Bucky feels similar desperation claw at him. He doesn't want to watch this. It's only because he's relived it and analyzed every aspect over and over in his trauma account that he's able to sit through it, but this trial is wearing him thin.

The soldier's voice is filled with raw terror as he struggles, agents starting to drag him away. "Don't touch me, don't touch me, make it stop, make it stop-" 

Bucky wants to disappear.

The camera changes to the vault as the agents drag the soldier in, still struggling as blood spreads from the bullet wounds in his thighs. They shove him into the chair and the cuffs snap over his arms, the soldier suddenly going perfectly still as his eyes glaze over and he stares ahead blankly. 

Pierce walks into the room, closely followed by Rumlow, the techs jogging after them to stand by the soldier.

Pierce pinches the bridge of his nose, staring at the soldier. "What the hell happened? It's like he just went insane."

Glasses shakes his head. "I don't know. That shouldn't have happened. It's only been a day since the wipe and there was nothing to set him off."

Pierce turns to Rumlow, narrowing his eyes. "He went after you. Why?"

Rumlow shrugs, face impassive. "I was probably closest."

"Hmm." Pierce looks like he doesn't quite believe this. He turns to the soldier. "Soldier, explain."

The soldier doesn't respond. Pierce steps forward, leaning down to peer into his eyes before backhanding him across the face. The soldier's head snaps around, breathing picking up as he tugs on the restraints. His eyes go wide and terrified again. 

"Soldier, explain."

The soldier is starting to hyperventilate, breaths hitching and body trembling as he stares into the middle distance. Pierce studies him and then sighs, waving a hand as he turns to Rumlow. 

"Do something until he's...back to normal. I don't care what it takes. I'll be back tonight, and then we'll wipe him again."

He leaves the room, Rumlow stepping up with a malicious gleam in his eye. Bowtie bravely steps in front of the soldier, looking nervous.

"Let us get these bullets out first," he says. "Please. It could cause permanent damage."

Rumlow sighs, looking impatient. "Fine."

The techs dig the bullets out of the soldier's legs, working in silence. The soldier stays still, but his breathing is fast and shallow and the whites of his eyes catch the harsh lights of the vault, a faint tremor running through him. The techs have barely taken the bullets out before Rumlow unlocks the cuffs and drags the soldier to the cell, the sound of a body thudding to the floor.

"Do you want help?" The head guard asks, stepping into the entryway.

"I've got it," Rumlow says. "You can leave for now." He shuts the door with a slam.

For all the trauma accounts of this he's written and read, Rumlow's words still echo in Bucky's mind.  

_"Look at me. You don't attack me or Pierce of Hydra under any circumstances, understand? I know what set you off, even if Pierce doesn't, and you're not allowed to react ever again. Your body belongs to us. We can do whatever the fuck we want with it. You got that through your head? You don't have rights, or wants, or anything. You don't even have feelings. You're nothing but a machine. You're going to let anyone touch you however they want and you're not going to do a damn thing because it's not up to you. You have no control. Got it?"_

On the screen the cell door opens and Rumlow strides out, hands stained with blood. Bucky swallows down nausea, the coffee he'd drank this morning threatening to make a reappearance. He can't move in his chair, eyes glued to the screen, and his whole body is numb and tingling. 

"He's all yours," Rumlow says. 

The soldier is just visible behind him, and the techs rush forward to get their arms around him just as he stumbles and starts to fall. 

"Come on," Bowtie says. "Let's get you in the chair." They shuffle across the room and deposit the soldier in the chair, immediately inserting the IV into his hand. The soldier slumps against the chair, injuries on full display. His chest is a map of shallow cuts, blood running in rivulets down old scars and joining the bloody patches around the bullet holes in his thighs. The cuts travel all the way down his right arm, and the fingers of his right hand are nothing but bloody stumps missing fingernails. There is more blood running down his face, coming from his nose and a cut above his eyebrow, eye already blackening. There's a bloody handprint around his throat and his eyes are glazed and empty, hair hanging around his face in limp strands.

He can't. He can't do this. He has to-he has to go but he can't, frozen in place, static filling his brain. 

The techs start to inspect his injuries as the guards around the room look on, some of their faces slightly disturbed. Glasses picks up the hand, cradling it gently as he clicks his tongue. The soldier's hand is limp and malleable in his, like a puppet. 

"These will take a while to heal. The fingernails have to grow back, but there shouldn't be permanent damage."

Bowtie sits on the rolling stool and scoots closer to examine the bullet wounds in the soldier's thighs. "I think they're getting better aim. These should heal no problem."

"Other than that it's just some cuts and bruising." Glasses grabs the soldier's chin, tilting his head as he squints at his face. He looks like he's inspecting a horse, or a piece of furniture, not a person. Bucky suddenly gets what Dr. Zahir had been saying. The techs were just as bad as the rest of them. It helps, to focus on what the techs are doing in the video and not his own brain, Rumlow's voice playing in a loop. 

"I don't think his nose is broken," Glasses says perfunctorily. "Looks like he smashed his face against something. Probably the wall." _The floor,_ Bucky thinks. Glasses' fingers probe at the bruising, the soldier not flinching except to blink when Glasses prods his jaw. Glasses frowns. "Can you open your mouth for me?"

The soldier opens his mouth slowly, as if with great effort. Glasses peers inside, finally taking a gloved finger and feeling inside the soldier's mouth. He withdraws it and grimaces, glove bloodied. He strips off his gloves, throwing them in the small trash can in the corner.

"Think we've got some cracked teeth here, maybe even a fractured jaw. We can only hope they'll heal on their own without complications. But I think that's it for injuries."

Bowtie nods. "A few more minutes on the IV and then we can get him cleaned up." 

The video stops. Hawthorne speaks. Dr. Zahir speaks. More short clips are shown, a long series of  _mission, wipe, cryo, mission, wipe, cryo._ This was his life, Hawthorne says. Over and over and over. Mission, wipe, cryo. Wipe, mission, cryo. Nothing else. Bucky breathes, and calms, staying somewhere between dissociation and panic. 

They break for lunch. Bucky is escorted to the holding cell in the courtroom, CIA agents surrounding him. Steve and the others find him, faces lined with worry and a strange sort of exhaustion that he feels in his soul. Steve steps into the cell and Bucky immediately goes to him, uncaring of the agents watching as he steps into Steve's space and drops his forehead onto Steve's shoulder. There's still a few inches between their bodies, and Steve makes no move to touch him, the proximity just as much as he can handle. He simply breathes for a minute, inhaling Steve's familiar scent and letting the tension drain out of him. Eventually he straightens up, turning as he smells coffee. Natalia walks into the cell, holding out a cup and smiling slightly, though her eyes are tight. Bucky takes it gratefully, moving to sit down on the bench in the back as Steve sits next to him. 

"How are you holding up?" Steve murmurs.

Bucky shrugs, taking a sip of his coffee. "Okay. You?"

Steve shrugs. "Okay."

Bucky leans back against the wall, sighing. "I think we're both filthy liars."

***

Steve takes the stand. He talks about fighting Bucky on the causeway, and how he'd recognized him when the mask came off, how Bucky didn't know his own name. The clip is played of the bank vault, underscoring that Bucky had fought back at one word from Steve, one scrap of memory.

On the screen the soldier sits in the chair, sparks flying from his arm as the engineer works. His gaze is blank, unfocused, the guards around him facing outwards and looking relaxed. His bare chest is a map of scars, an IV taped to his hand as he slumps in the seat. Then there's a twitch, a flash of eyes and the soldier erupts, lashing out with the metal arm and sending the engineer flying and the techs running away. The guards whirl, guns cocking and aimed at him as he breathes heavily, fists clenched. 

Gradually he seems to deflate, eyes going glassy as his hands fall limply to his lap. The techs gather the fallen engineer and exit the room, the guards still encircling him. 

"Sir. He's-he's unstable, erratic," comes through the speakers as Pierce comes in with the techs and Rumlow, the gate slamming behind them. Pierce raises his hands and the guards lower their guns as he steps up in front of the soldier, eyeing him critically. 

"Mission report."

The solider stares ahead, unblinking. 

"Mission report, now."

Pierce bends down, studying him, before backhanding him across the face. The soldier's head snaps to the side before returning as if nothing has happened, eyes blinking up at Pierce. 

"The man on the bridge," he says, raising a hand to his chest as his eyes flick to Pierce, questioning. "Who was he?"

Pierce is bending down to his level, hands on his knees, and he hesitates for a second before answering. "You met him earlier this week on another assignment."

The soldier seems to contemplate this, fingers digging into his chest. "I knew him," he murmurs, eyes roving to the side.  

Pierce pulls up a stool, sitting down, and the soldier's gaze shutters slightly as he takes a breath. 

"Your work has been a gift to mankind," Pierce says, and slight frustration crosses the soldier's expression. "You shaped the century. And I need you to do it one more time."

 _One more time._ Bucky sees himself relent, giving in to Pierce's promises, and his nails cut grooves into his palm.  _Fight back, goddamn it!_

"Society's at a tipping point between order and chaos. Tomorrow morning, we're going to give it a push. But, if you don't do your part, I can't do mine, and Hydra can't give the world the freedom it deserves."

The soldier tilts his head, looking resigned. "But I knew him." His lips press together briefly, forehead creasing in frustrated confusion.  _This is wrong,_ Bucky remembers feeling. A spark of defiance slipping through hopelessness, a thread of connection in his chest the only thing fueling it. All at once, he wants to cry. 

Pierce sighs, contemplating, before getting up. "Prep him."

Something breaks in the soldier's gaze.

"He's been out of cryofreeze too long," Bowtie says hesitantly.

Pierce turns to the soldier. "Then wipe him, and start over."

There is no doubting the grief on the soldier's face, the resignation, and Bucky wants to scream for him to  _fight,_ to  _do something_ but he only lets the techs push him back in the chair, opening his mouth for the bite guard. He locks gazes with Pierce, that last spark of defiance kindling in his eyes before the cuffs snap around his arms. His breaths pick up, chest heaving as the halo whirs to life, tremors wracking his body as it lowers over his head. Bucky can see the electricity arcing through the paddles, hear the sound of them echoed in his own memories, can smell the static charge in the air. Rumlow is watching him in the tape with twisted pleasure on his face, and Bucky feels his skin crawl. He watches himself panic, watches the sheer, inhuman terror, and there's a muted whimper before the paddles clamp over his head and the soldier begins to scream. 

The tape stops. Steve begins to talk, voice rough, telling the room how even though they'd wiped him he still managed to get through to Bucky on the Helicarrier. How they'd fought, and he'd fallen, but Bucky had dragged him out of the water. 

"He saved me," he says, eyes finding Bucky's, and Bucky feels a tear slip down his cheek. "After all that, he still saved me. It was the first time he'd had a choice in seventy years, and despite everything,  _against_ everything, he made the right one."

***

Steve's testimony is one of the most important ones. Hawthorne asks him the questions they'd decided on beforehand, painting a picture of Bucky that's much better than he would have. 

"When did you first make contact with Sergeant Barnes after the Helicarriers?" Hawthorne asks. 

"Two weeks later," Steve responds. "Hydra caught up with him and tried to recapture him but he escaped. He was wounded, so he came to us for help."

"Us?"

"Sam Wilson and I. I was staying at his house."

"Sam Wilson fought with you on the day of the Helicarriers, is that correct?"

"Yes."

"And how would you describe Barnes' mental state?"

"He was...." Steve pauses. "Blank, at first. Answered questions with yes and no, didn't speak much. Agreed with whatever we said."

"Was he violent at all?"

Steve shakes his head. "No. Never. Not once."

"What happened after he came to you?"

"Well, first we patched him up, then asked him questions. He said he wasn't with Hydra, he didn't know why he pulled me out of the river, and that his new mission was to protect me. He told us what he remembered, which was practically nothing, but he told us where the base they kept him was. The bank. So we went there, cleared it, gathered evidence, and called Maria Hill, a former SHIELD agent we knew we could trust. We didn't trust the government or the authorities, after what happened. No offense. We just had no idea who was Hydra or not."

Hawthorne nods, and the jury looks to be hanging on Steve's every word. Steve, for his part, looks every inch Captain America, sitting straight-backed in his chair with his open eyes and level tone that makes anyone want to drop everything and follow him to the ends of the earth.

"We arrested two Hydra technicians in the base and turned them over to Agent Hill, who personally escorted them to Avenger's Tower. All the other evidence was carefully collected and also secured in Avenger's Tower, and Tony Stark analyzed the information before passing it on to us. Bucky went with us willingly to the Tower, and was recovering there until it was safe to reach out to other authorities. I focused on taking down Hydra during that time, spending three weeks abroad until Bucky was stable and I was assured of the legitimacy of the government. As soon as the warrant went out for his arrest, we made plans for him to turn himself in, still acting with caution because of the lingering Hydra presence. We were careful not to disclose his location in case there was an attempt to recapture him, and I reached out to a trustworthy former agent of SHIELD working for the CIA to arrange him arrest. We wanted to make sure that everything was done right, and that Bucky was given a fair trial. We started by announcing that he was alive and his status as the former Winter Soldier, and then contacted Sharon Carter - the CIA agent. Soon after, Bucky turned himself in for psychological assessment and arraignment."

Steve takes a breath. "Unfortunately, Hydra got wind of the plan and sent an agent disguised as the psychologist. Using the trigger words, he made Bucky try to escape, and we were forced to subdue him. There was no proof that Bucky hadn't acted of his own accord, the agent managing to escape, but it was clear to us what had happened. He was arraigned and brought back to the Tower, where he continued to recover and began the process of deprogramming his trigger words."

Steve spreads his hands. "And here we are."

Looking back, those first few days in the Tower feel like a lifetime ago, even though it's only been a little over two months. He's suddenly surprised by the progress he's made in that amount of time. That has to count for something. Maybe, in another few months, he'll be even better. He can only hope. 

Hawthorne asks Steve about his mental state, and whether he seemed in control of his actions, and Steve dutifully highlights the difference between when they fought and now.

"He was like...a robot," Steve says, looking pained. "Like someone else was controlling him. There was just...nothing behind his eyes."

Bucky swallows. He knows it's for the jury's sake, but it hurts, to hear Steve talking about him like this. To know how Steve had seen him. 

"I wasn't there for his early recovery," Steve looks slightly pained, and Bucky knows he's thinking of the reason why, those three weeks apart where Bucky put himself back together again. "But I immediately knew it was him when I came back. It was  _Bucky_ again. And knowing everything that happened, knowing Bucky, what Hydra made him do wasn't his fault. He wasn't in his right mind, there can be no doubt about that. He didn't know his own name, didn't know anything except for what Hydra told him, and it still wasn't enough to get him to do what they wanted. Bucky fought them every step of the way, even when anyone else would have given up. His will was so strong that he broke seventy years of torture and brainwashing to pull me from that river. And even after, when he could have gone back, when he could have given up, he stayed and fought. People call me strong, but there is no one stronger than Bucky Barnes. The Bucky I know is kind and brave and damn near unbreakable, and people call me a hero but Bucky was always mine. That hasn't changed."

Bucky has to blink to keep the tears in his eyes at bay, heart twisting with grief and love for Steve. Steve's eyes find his, and he smiles slightly, and Bucky smiles back, vision blurred with tears. 

The prosecution moves to cross-examine Steve and Bucky pulls himself together, watching as Bharara takes the floor.

"You said Barnes broke Hydra's control on the Helicarrier. Do you think this implies that he was always capable of breaking their control?"

Steve's jaw tightens. "Yes and No. Yes, because he's done it before. No, because that time he was able to escape. As we've all seen from the tapes, Bucky kept breaking through again and again, but each time they tortured him and wiped his memories. But on the Helicarriers, that was it. Hydra was falling, Pierce was dead, there was a clear path of escape and I've known Bucky since he was six years old. If there was ever a chance for him to break through and for it to stick, that was it. Just like in the seventies when he escaped he took the first chance and ran, and slowly regained his memories. He didn't hurt a single soul both times, either. But before, Hydra dragged him back and took everything he'd gained away. After the Helicarriers, Hydra was crumbling, and Bucky came to me. That made it different, and gave him the chance to recover. So if you're asking me if it's Bucky's fault for not trying to escape every single second, then that's absurd. He was so thoroughly under their control that escape was impossible until DC, and even still,  _even still,_ he kept trying to escape."

Bharara nods. "You said he made the right decision to save your life on the Helicarrier. Do you believe that he knew right from wrong, and was able to make that conscious decision?"

Steve shakes his head emphatically. "No. I do not. He admitted to me that he had no idea why he'd saved my life. But as I said, I've known him since he was six years old, and we were inseparable our entire lives. That's hard to erase. Bucky has protected me my whole life, and I think he just couldn't kill me, on whatever sense of familiarity he had. It was an impulse decision, I think. He'd already shot me and beaten me half to death. He just...jumped in and pulled me out of the water at the last moment."

Bucky wonders at how well Steve knows him. He's right. The memories are strange and muddled, laced through with confusion and pain, but he remembers the startling moment of clarity, the need to  _protect,_ the horror as he stared down at Steve's bloody face. He'd jumped after him without a thought.

"It sounds like you're speculating on Barnes' thoughts at the time," Bharara says. "Do you believe you are unable to be objective in assessing Barnes' mental state?"

"Of course," Steve concedes. "It's impossible to be objective. But no matter my feelings, it doesn't change the  _fact_ that Bucky was made to do things against his will, and as evidence and professional assessments have concluded, had no choice in the matter. It doesn't change the fact that Bucky Barnes is a war hero, and a good man, and was captured by Hydra, tortured, mind controlled, and brainwashed. It doesn't change the fact that he's been a prisoner of war for seventy years. Those are all facts. Irrefutable. Maybe I'm biased on some things, but it doesn't change any of that."

There's a heavy silence, and Bucky blinks, stunned. Steve knows exactly what to say, how to counter each question so well it makes the cross-examination counterproductive to the prosecution. 

Bharara doesn't seem fazed, giving Steve a slight nod. "Thank you, Captain Rogers. No more questions, your Honor."

Sam is called next, answering Hawthorne's questions about his life and telling how he and Steve met before giving his account of the incident in DC and Bucky's subsequent appearance and recovery. 

"You know one of the first things he said to me?" Sam says, a wry smile on his face. " _Sorry._ I made some remark about how he tried to kill me, and his first response was, 'sorry.'" Sam shakes his head. "Pretty sure that was it for me. And I was a skeptic. I told Steve straight up before the Helicarriers that I thought Barnes was the kind you stop, not the kind you save. When Barnes showed up, I didn't trust him one bit, even if I did recognize that he'd been a victim. I was worried that there was nothing left of him, that it was just the Winter Soldier. I thought there was nothing left to save."

Sam takes a breath. "But I was wrong. As much as I tried to resist, about ten minutes in I was ready to go to bat for him. At first, it was mostly for Steve, because I was his friend, but soon it was just because of Barnes. Because I saw that he was worth saving. And there was so much to save. Now I didn't know Barnes before, so I can't compare who he was then, but the person he is now? He's a good one."

Sam nods for emphasis. "I've watched Barnes overcome everything he's faced, and manage to be a decent person the whole time. There's no question of who he is without Hydra's influence. And watching him, helping him, there's no doubt that he was under their control. Barnes, in his right mind, would  _never_ do the things Hydra made him. I spent a lot of time with Barnes, those first few weeks, and I saw a traumatized soldier but never a stone cold killer. And, to be honest, I was expecting more of a mess than I got."

Sam shoots Bucky a look and Bucky feels his lips twitch. "I mean, he  _was_ a mess," Sam says, with that same tinge of humor that always relaxes Bucky, "but even in the first days I could see his personality coming through. Even when _he_ didn't know who he was, he was still a person. Don't get me wrong, he's a bit of an asshole, but a lovable one, and I'm lucky to count him as a friend."

Bucky fights a smile, ducking his head. He reminds himself to thank Sam again for everything he's done for him. 

"Was he ever violent?" Hawthorne asks.

Sam shakes his head. "No. Without anyone pulling his strings he wasn't violent at all. There was only one time, early on, when he had a hand around my throat. But he didn't hurt me at all, let go quickly. He was more afraid of me than I ever was of him, and I counted it as progress. Questioning people, fighting back, all that. Other than that, I didn't hurt him, he didn't hurt me. It was good." 

Bucky winces. He's not wrong in saying Bucky was more afraid of Sam during those days than Sam was of him.

"Better than a lot of veterans, actually," Sam notes. "When some people with PTSD dissociate, they become violent, trying to defend themselves from the enemy. If they get startled, or triggered, they may lash out accidentally, on instinct. But Barnes? Never. Granted, he punched a lot of holes in the walls, but he never lashed out at anyone. I honestly have no idea how, given everything."

Probably because he feared punishment, Bucky thinks. Rumlow taught him well. His first response is to freeze, to flinch away, never to attack. Attacking means pain.

Hawthorne nods. "Thank you, Staff Sergeant Wilson."

Bharara takes the floor to cross-examine Sam, posture relaxed.

"You seem to have spent the most time with Sergeant Barnes since he defected from Hydra. You count yourself as a friend. His recovery, as you said, is remarkable. Did you ever feel that Barnes was acting to try and gain your sympathy?"

Sam snorts, then composes himself. "No. Like I said, Barnes could be an asshole, and there's some things you can't fake. Are you asking if I think the Winter Soldier is faking all this? Trying to...what? He could have killed any of us a hundred times over already, could have already infiltrated Stark - Avengers Tower and helped Hydra. He hasn't done any of that." Sam shakes his head. "Barnes never tried to get my sympathy. If anything, he rejected it. I'm the last person anyone would try to pull one over on, and Barnes isn't exactly subtle. I was the one who offered my  _empathy_ and tried to help him, even when he didn't believe it."

Bharara seems to latch onto something. "You said he rejected your sympathy, your help. Earlier, you painted Barnes as trying hard to recover. Can you explain that contradiction?"

Sam raises an eyebrow. "It's no contradiction. With all due respect, I doubt you've worked with veterans or people with PTSD before. People can want to recover yet still reject sympathy and help. Barnes wanted to regain his memories and be on the right side, but he had major trauma. Hydra had messed with his brain for years, and we've already heard it explained what that did to him. There's guilt, and confusion, and a whole way of thinking that he had to change. What Hydra made him believe wasn't going to go away overnight. Plus, people with trauma can be pretty prickly. They don't want to talk, don't want your sympathy. That's normal, even if what Barnes went through isn't. Trauma is complex, and PTSD is complex. So yeah, Barnes wanted to recover, inasmuch as he knew Hydra was bad and he wanted his memories back, but it's not that easy."

Bharara nods. "Okay. Thank you. I have no more questions."

Bucky sighs in relief. Sam truly did go to bat for him. He's a saint. 

The next person to take the stand is Tony. He very briefly explains how Steve called him after the Helicarriers and how he kept and examined all the evidence. 

"How did you first hear about Sergeant Barnes being the Winter Soldier?" Hawthorne asks.  

"Rogers called me after the Helicarriers, told me everything. Asked me to help search for him."

"And you agreed?"

"Of course. I looked into the Winter Soldier and I had a bit of a hard time reconciling the fact that it was James Barnes, Howling Commando, but after I took a look at the file they sent me I started to understand. It didn't say much, but I knew it had to be bad, to make Barnes turn into that. My dad always spoke so highly of him."

Bucky flinches. Tony clears his throat. "It wasn't until I got the tapes from the vault that I really understood what had been done to him. It was....horrifying. And I looked further, and I saw that the Winter Soldier had killed my parents, and...."

Tony shakes his head. "I was angry, at first. But after seeing those tapes, I couldn't blame Barnes. Howard and him...they were friends, and I know that Barnes would never raise a hand against him, or any innocent person. Hydra was the one to blame. So I got angry at them instead, and vowed to do whatever I could to help Barnes. He was just as much a victim as my parents."

"When did you first come into contact with Sergeant Barnes?"

"When they first brought him to the Tower. It was short, and he didn't even say anything except 'no' when I asked him if he was still trying to kill Rogers. After that, I watched the tapes and then interviewed the techs. I learned about my parents the next day. A couple days after that, Wilson brought Barnes with him to the lab where I was showing him the progress on his new wings. He ended up helping me work on them, and let me take a tracker out of his arm. After that he kept coming by the lab at odd hours just to hang out, tinker a bit. I offered to update his arm a bit and he agreed. One day he remembered, about my parents, but we talked it out."

Tony looks uncomfortable, but he presses on. "Look, I know he was a good guy back in the day - like, a genuinely good person, even though he'd already seen stuff in the war that makes my trip to the desert look like nothing. And I know he's a good person now, because it's evident within two seconds in his presence. So the Winter Soldier? That was Hydra. They used Barnes to do it, but it wasn't him. And my dad would be rolling over in his grave if he knew that we were even putting him on trial. In fact, all the Howling Commandos would be rolling over in their graves. I'm expecting Peggy Carter to burst through those doors any minute now and punch someone in the face before dragging Barnes out with her. This is _Bucky Barnes_  we're talking about.War hero, Captain America's best friend, beloved national icon. He's gone through hell and come out fighting. I, for one, think he deserves a _goddamn_ break."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been so long, I know! One thing led to another led to me losing momentum and turning to other things :( Sorry to keep you waiting, hopefully this makes up for it! Thank you for all your wonderful comments that inspired me to keep going.


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